A Night By My Fire
by Spilt Tea
Summary: Of all the people to be dragged into Crane's courts never, never, did Bane expect to see her.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing from the DC universe.**

**Chapter 1**

A slap of water crested her upper thigh, forcing a reflexive hiss past pursed lips once the chill hit her belly. Straining forward as quickly as she could manage, the woman traversed the half-frozen lake shore, the hiss replaced with quite creative profanity once the water saturated her breasts. The following cramp almost stole her breath, but she was close enough to reach forward and fist her hand in the clothing of the massive body floating by.

Her own fingers losing feeling, the woman pulled, yanking whoever he was from the bracken he had been tangled in.

And boy was he damn lucky she had seen him drifting while she was fishing... that was, if the floating behemoth was still alive.

There was no time to check; dead or alive she needed to get out of that arctic water. Hardly sparing him a glance, she hooked her arm around his chest and tugged her cargo to the lapping shore. The beast was massive, his clothing water logged, and dragging him out of the tide was a feat of pure will. It took a few seconds for her to get her fingers under his hood, to push it back and yank down the scarf over his face… only to find some odd contraptions hugging a shaved skull and enclosing the place she need to reach, the man's nose and mouth.

There was no time for delicacy. She ripped at the latches of the apparatus, unsure what it was for, honestly not giving two shits. It got a reaction: the male jerked.

He was alive.

Numb fingers pried apart the stiff plating, an ear was exposed, and gripping the tubes over his mouth, she tore it off. The man twitched again. Panting, she rolled him on to his side, certain by his garbled wheeze the giant's lungs were full of water. She stood, and kicked the bastard square between the shoulder blades.

The instant gush from his mouth confirmed her suspicion.

Pressing his back to the rocky shore, angling the man's thick neck, her lips went to his. She gave him her breath. There was hardly a need for compressions before he spit up another wave of water. After clearing his mouth, she breathed for him again.

The man's eyes flew open. An inhalation, rattling and unhealthy, was sucked deep even as she tried to turn him to his side to vomit up the rest. Shifting her feet, loudly cursing him to high heaven, she kneeled behind him, fisted her hand, and began to vigorously rub his chest in hard brutal circles.

So much came up and his color slowly went from purple to a creepy shade of green. Jerking movement became erratic, panicked. A series of racking coughs seemed to push out the last bit of lake water, but the man, the great beast she was trying to tend, was far more obsessed with reaching out for the thing she'd pulled from his face than spitting up the fluid.

It was such a strange thing to witness, a powerful man weeping silently, shuddering, and wielding a muscled arm so big it seemed it could break her in two, yet so weak he could not extend it the final inches to take what he wanted.

Her fingers found it for him, batting his away so she might wrap the uncomfortable looking thing back around his head. The way he watched her, the hatred, she almost hesitated, unsure if she would be safe should the strange thing continue to revive him.

But honor mattered.

Pressing the tubes to his nose and mouth, she met a wide-eyed death glare, and snapped the last latch into place. A huge noisy breath was immediately sucked deep. Then another, expanding a rib cage so massive, she felt the need to back away. It was not a sensation she humored. Instead, she stood and offered a hand. "You lost your footing, stranger."

Bowed over, clearly struggling, he loudly cleared his throat, hacking up a lung as he got to his knees and shoved her away.

Finding the rocky shore digging into her butt; cold, sopping wet, and pissed off, she got up and barked, "If you want something to panic about, it should be the coming dark, not your fancy helmet."

She knew he was in shock. It was clear from the way he trembled, the settling confusion in his bloodshot eyes.

Her muddy boots came into his line of sight. There was hardly any time to snarl before the woman had the nerve to strike him in five concurrent blows on his back. His body reacted and he spit up again, the liquid flowing past the grate over his lips and landing right on her feet. He wheezed, sputtered, and then the bastard had the audacity to look up and actually growl at her.

"Yeah, fuck you too," she said, cocking her chin once toward the frozen river. "You think I wanted to wade into that shit? Now, get on your feet or freeze to death and waste the life I just gave you."

Standing, throwing one of her long braids over her shoulder, she offered the stranger a hand again; her eyes warning that if he didn't take it, she would leave him to die. All the male did was look up at her, as if measuring her, as if debating some great matter. What his eyes found in the appraisal was a filthy wet woman; a woman with mud smeared all over her, frowning at him, her brows drawn together.

She was also shivering.

It seemed as if too much time was wasted, but she waited, her hand extended, her eyes challenging. A paw came up, gripped her about the elbow; she mirrored his hold and he let her help him to his feet. Even with the mask's analgesic it was clear one of his ankles was badly damaged.

Eyeballing the forest, seeing the thick of the landscape, Bane understood he would not manage alone.

"Right," she grunted, frowning at his stuttered step and twisted boot. "Put your arm about me."

The damn thing was heavy and he gripped too hard when she huddled to his side and rolled her shoulder, shifting the weight of her rifle to accommodate the press of his body. There was no time for talk, no need in her mind to make any type of introductions, not with the swell of the sun's orange disk descending behind the mountains. She took a step, he followed, allowing her to bear a portion of his weight, and together they moved into the dark of the woods.

The scent of cedar, the smell of cold crushed plant life, it was sharp in each deep inhalation as she cursed him, barking orders that only earned her a death threat of a glare, "Move your ass! We still have half a mile to hike and you're never going to make it crawling like a baby."

The tree line blocked a portion of the biting wind, but the air was still cold, their breath visible. She was sweating into her wet clothing, winded from the labor of dragging the obviously steroid addled idiot up the mountain to shelter.

They crested a rocky summit, the scent of the air took on a fragrance of wood smoke, and she smiled, a thing the man did not see. He did, however, see the small log cabin buried farther up in a copse of trees.

For the briefest of seconds she felt her companion hesitate, looking up to find his eyes locked on her. She met that murderous gaze, fully aware he was thinking of how much bigger he was, how much stronger even injured. Her eyes were black, the pupils almost indistinguishable. It was there he glared, his almost colorless eyes lacking everything hers had in abundance.

Life. The woman was full of life. And she had given a portion of it to him - to a stranger.

There was her home; she had dragged him to the small box made of logs that most likely lacked electricity.

This was not the type of human he was familiar with.

Unfamiliar things were vastly unsettling.

Flexing the arm around the much smaller female's shoulders, Bane sniffed the air in a long pull, the scent of his medication mixing with the smell of her sweat and the fishy waters freezing in their clothing.

She was through being patient. In fact, it seemed patience was not her strong point. A thin shoulder lurched under his arm, gesturing that now was not the time to stop. She was cold, lacked the drugs that had been dampening his discomfort. One curve of his elbow, one wrench, and he could kill her right there, snap her neck.

Bane was tempted. Lodging was waiting; she probably had supplies, first aid necessities… transportation.

Her teeth showed white against the tawny warmth of her skin. "Move!"

An unsteady voice barked through the mask, oddly intoned and not at all what she'd expected. "No one orders me."

She could swear there was an unspoken, _not anymore_, in his statement. A bruised ego was an easy thing to smell on a man.

When she ordered it again her voice was just as nasty and baiting as the first time, "Move, now, or make the way yourself. I'm cold."

Her boots shuffled, he followed in sync, and Bane did move. A few more minutes and she was jerking the latch and kicking the wooden door forward. There was no lock on her house, nothing to keep the dark things out, and even in his weakened state he marveled at it.

The sound of the door banging into the interior wall was nothing compared to her groan as she sagged, clearly exhausted. Swallowing, she sucked in a breath and shuffled the pair of them through the miniscule living area to where a basic table and chairs were situated across the room beside counter space and a small rudimentary kitchen.

He limped where she led him, leaving a trail of slush and mud on the worn area rug and plank floors. Dumping her ungrateful cargo into a spindle chair, she fell back onto the floor, splayed as she caught her breath.

The remnants of a fire were burning, heating the air, but from the look of ice crusting their clothing, it was clear more work had to be done immediately to prevent the sting of frostbite.

Stringy strands of hair escaped a pair of long braids and lay plastered to her sweaty face. She ignored them and scrambled to her knees. Using her teeth to pull off her thick gloves, she spit them to the side and moved as quickly as she could to tear at the laces of the stranger's combat boots. Ignoring the bite of the floor against her kneecaps, she yanked, freeing a huge wet foot, throwing the sodden boot behind her before reaching for the man's other foot, the damaged one.

There was no gentle, no concern for potential broken bones; she just took the wet leather, peeling it away to throw where its partner was marking the floor in a puddle. His jacket zipper was yanked down, the garment parted and shoved over the swell of broad shoulders, the woman tugging, pulling, yanking, to get her way and take the damn thing off a brute who was less than useful.

She fought him for the jacket. When he did not obey, she kicked his bad ankle and instant pain stopped his resistance. Every layer covering his top half was forced over his head and that strange breathing apparatus, each sodden garment dropped unceremoniously to the floor.

There was no time to recognize the state of the flesh before her, to count the scars or the bruising, or even accept that he was pure muscle with hardly enough body fat to keep him warm. Once he was bare-chested, she scurried away toward the small couch, snagged a blanket and wrapped it over his shivering shoulders.

"There now." Her voice was softer as the fabric tucked around him.

She went for his belt. He resisted, shivering, when she yanked at the buckle.

"Shy, hmm?" It was mildly amusing. Cocking her lips, she pinched him until his hands moved out of her way, teasing, "I have never met a man of your age who didn't want to jump out of his clothes when a woman started to undress him…"

The glare he gave her… it was something to be seen.

"Tough crowd…" she just laughed through her nose and the belt was stripped from the loops. "Well, stranger, I have seen a naked man before. To be honest, you all got the same parts, so I promise I won't act shocked if I see your dick."

He was giving her that look again and she was still smirking as his zipper was tugged down.

A moment later her upturned eyes found his but her face was serious, almost threatening. "If you struggle or kick me, there will be consequences." Her hand went for the wet fabric at his thigh. Tugging, it took her four or five good yanks to force the wet pants from under his weight. Fisting her hands around the cuff of the garment, she leaned back and pulled until his legs were bare and she was an awkward pile on the floor, again.

"Now, since you seem to be the shy type I am tempted to leave you in your drawers…" She looked him dead in the eye as she struggled to get up, "But your balls won't be coming out of your rib cage anytime soon if you don't get warm and dry. Your call."

He didn't answer so she stood quickly. A kitchen towel appeared in her hands, then on his head as she began to dry his mask.

"Take the damn things off!" he snarled, batting her away from the apparatus.

Not at all impressed with his attitude, she tossed the towel aside, reached under the blanket draped from his shoulders, and tugged at the elastic waistband of his briefs. For once he helped her; raising his hips just enough so that she could pull the saturated fabric down his thighs.

"I guess I should have mentioned your testicles from the start… it would have made this a lot easier. And I mean this, cold or no, you're an absolute asshole."

And like that he was dismissed. Her own clothes had to go and there was no point in being shy when she was fucking freezing. Each layer was peeled off even as she moved toward the fire. Standing in only her underwear, she reached for another blanket, wrapped it around her, and built up the blaze with her free hand. Once new wood caught and flames were building, the woman went back to where he sat too big for his chair, and she reached an arm around him. Without ceremony, she took him to the old sofa, sat him before the fire, adjusting the scratchy blanket on his shoulders before adding another to his lap.

She palmed his face, turning his head a little left and right, following when he tried to jerk the mask out of her grasp. "You might have a minor concussion. Your pupils are slightly dilated… Are you in pain?"

"No," the denial was growled but meek.

His good behavior earned him a soft smile.

Standing, she took the same old wooden chair from the kitchen and set it before him, helping him lift his leg to elevate his injured foot, resting it on a throw pillow. "Let's hope it's not broken. Out here you will be in a world of trouble if it is. Not to mention potential pneumonia. Also, try not to die on my couch. You're too fucking big to move by myself and grave digging in this weather…"

And with that she left him and went to the kitchen. From the sofa, he heard the telltale click of the gas range igniting. When she reappeared, still wearing that blanket tucked around her breasts, the woman strung a cord from wall to wall, proceeding to hang up their dripping clothes, frowning at the water marring her floor. Looking at him under lowered brows, seeing him watching her, she made it clear she was not at all happy about the state of her home or his part in it.

And what a bizarre home it was.

For starters, it was very small. Secondly, there seemed to be no modern comforts. No television, no washer or dryer, only a gas range for cooking and lanterns for light. For an American, she was very strange. For a young woman, she was even stranger.

But she did have something that seemed a saving grace of sorts, at least in his opinion: books.

Mismatched shelves lined the walls of the living room, titles jammed in, spines worn. That was what held his shaky attention as the female puttered around, wiping the mud from the floor and muttering under her breath.

The kettle sang and moments later she reappeared with a steaming cup she tried to press into his hands. Distracted by the strangeness of someone offering him food or water, it took Bane a moment to realize she was already messing with the latches of his mask. He felt the plastic grip on his cheek lessen, realized what she was doing; and caught between balancing the cup and trying to stop her, yanked on her wrist.

She yanked back.

The mask came off and a pained noise passed his lips even as she was pressing the hot liquid to his mouth. The ache in his ankle and spine bloomed. Choking on water heavily laced with honey, he trembled and reached beside him where she had let the mask drop to the couch.

She tipped the cup up from the bottom and pressured him to drink more. "Swallow. It will help your core temperature rise."

There was the warmth of water pouring down his face, not only from where the beverage spilled, but from his eyes. He would have done almost anything she demanded at that point, lost in the delirium of unnumbed hypothermia and slave to the old agony mutilating his sense of self. Every last scalding drop was swallowed. When Bane was practically convulsing, her fingers gave him what he wanted, pulling the apparatus back over his skull, latching it as he panted full greedy breaths of what she realized must be nebulized medication that stank of envelope glue.

Standing over him, watching the great beast suck in air, it seemed almost odd that a man who possessed such strength of body could be so very weak. She looked at his swelling ankle and the naked leg stretched toward the fire, then back to eyes that were growing coherent.

She stepped out of the man's reach.

He was calculating something that made her wish she had left him floating down the river. It was his attention on her hair, the way he studied the two thick messy braids hanging to her waist; she knew, in just one look that he fantasied choking her with the ropes.

Almost superstitiously, she stroked her hands down his would-be murder weapon, brushing off some of the collected dirt.

She sneered.

* * *

**To those of you wondering if I had another Bane fic in the words... tah dah! **


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It wasn't the discomfort of Bane's ankle that woke him, but that of his neck, angled back sharply atop an unfamiliar couch. Sweating under coarse wool blankets and piles of bedding, he fumbled at the cumbersome layers, exposing a damp chest to much cooler air. From the muddled inability to focus his eyes, Bane was certain the mask was holding back a great deal of discomfort beyond simple physical pain.

The foul-mouthed woman was nowhere to be seen. There was no sound of shuffling feet; her jacket was gone.

Pressing palms over raw eyes did nothing to shut out the sharper image of recent memory. Ducard had been clever in his sentencing, in the callousness one would expect from a disappointed Demon Head. One low flying plane, one open door overlooking tundra, and one boot to the chest. All the while Bane had just stood there; too dumbstruck to even flail when Talia's father shoved him into a freefall.

Henry Ducard had thought it through... plotted. If the drop hadn't killed Bane, the encroaching inability to move once the medication in his mask's cartridges ran dry would assure fatality. He'd lie in pain where exposure, wild animals, or simple starvation would finish the job.

But Ra's al Ghul hadn't counted on unsolicited compassion.

If calculations were correct, two weeks of numbing drugs remained. But the pain, this new pain, was nothing compared to what he'd suffer physically.

Everything was lost.

Talia... what would her father tell her? That he'd died serving?... Or would the bastard repeat the word that still burned between Bane's ears. Excommunication - the ultimate shame.

And for what? For wanting to be more than a dog? For despising that Bruce Wayne was to take the position that should have been his in the League and in Talia's affections? It's not as if he hadn't noticed Ducard's growing disregard, how uneasy he was around him ... the quality of missions he was ordered to complete. Bane was never expected to survive the last years, but had. He'd always come back for little Talia. In doing so, he'd followed every last rule, exceeded where others had failed... lived the demanding monastic lifestyle required of a dedicated League soldier.

Ducard said kill, he'd ripped the target to shreds with his bare hands. Ducard said steal, he'd dragged back twice as much as he'd been sent for. Ducard wanted interrogation, carnage, anything... Bane had delivered.

Still he'd been banished from the halls when a lieutenant had been chosen, forced to remain unseen and watch from the shadows as Ducard guided Wayne like a son. Worse still was stomaching Talia's admiration of the boy.

"Is he not a fine swordsman?" His girl's voice was taken. She was taken... with another that was not him.

Turning his head to look away from the training, to peer down at the young woman he'd raised, Bane had starred... watching her watch Wayne. "He is not a fine swordsman."

Talia had scoffed. Bane had walked away. Later, when it was dark, she'd snuck into his room and apologized. How it had cut him to realize she'd slunk in and out, no longer proud for others to see her affection for the one whispered to be an animal. She was ashamed of him, the Al Ghul dog that kept coming home where it was no longer wanted. Now put down in the wilds.

Bane could not stand to see his Talia embarrassed, to watch her turn to another. Perhaps it was for the best they'd been separated. She would flourish, be a queen, and he would ... be nothing.

He was nothing.

The latch clicked, the cabin's door swung in. The woman looked up briefly, stomping snow from her boots, and froze when she found him awake. In one arm was a basket of wet laundry, three fresh caught fish dangling from the fingers of the other.

Tossing the catch aside, she approached, seeing his color had improved, that his eyes were lucid. "Looks like the fever broke."

She sounded wary and the reason was there in the light purple blotches around one of her eyes.

"I struck you."

A smirk at his word choice preceded, "That you did, pretty boy. You're quite a flailer... fought like the devil each time I took off your mask so you might puke or I might pour medicine down your gullet."

"I did not vomit."

"Sure you didn't." She shrugged and tested his brow. "How are you feeling?"

No one touched him directly, not even Talia in years, and the sensation, the cold brush of foreign fingertips, made him pull his face away. "Fine."

She snorted, just a little, and looked him over with a raised brow. "Four whole words in under two minutes and not one of them a thank you." Ignoring his rudeness, she leaned closer and studied his eyes, "Headache, nausea?"

Deadpan, his colorless eyes flat, Bane demanded, "Your name."

"You can call me River." She did not ask his in return.

Eyeing him uncertainly, she reached for fabric hanging near the fire. "I washed your clothes but they won't be dry for a few hours yet." River tossed him his underwear before turning to stoke up the flames. "Those were cleaned in the sink last night, princess. The bathroom is through the door behind you if you want to pull on your skivvies and wash up. Don't be surprised when there's no hot water. I didn't have time to catch dinner and prep the heat pump before the few hours of daylight passed."

With the beginnings of a better blaze building she looked over her shoulder. The man just sat there staring at her skull as if all his worldly troubles she'd dumped in his lap. When he made no move to stand, she frowned. "It's not so bad, you know. You're not the first to get lost. You won't be the last. At least you're alive ... though not out of the woods yet." She leered, mimicking a rim shot. "Get it? Out of the woods?"

His attention went to the fire, the look in his eyes not at all impressed with her stupidity.

Snickering, she went to gut her catch, muttering, "I thought it was funny."

Her jacket was hung on a chair, the exposed limp knit sweater and dirty jeans underneath no improvement in Bane's opinion. In his periphery, he watched her yank the entrails out of a trout. "You claimed I was ill. For how long?"

Splat went another fishie's insides. "Just the night; you passed out at dawn. I would have stayed with you but I lost my catch yesterday and canned food needs to be saved for bad weather."

"You only caught three."

What was with this guy? Looking over her shoulder, River cocked a brow. "Sorry, I was busy cleaning the vomit you didn't have out of my clothes... not to mention the blood that came down my nose when you clocked me for giving you aspirin and keeping you hydrated."

"You're lucky I didn't kill you."

The fillets were slapped into a waiting skillet, sizzling loud enough she had to raise her voice to spit, "No you just cried like a baby. But if I hadn't taken off your mask you would have asphyxiated. I'm not a sadist; don't think I enjoyed it. In fact, don't think of me at all, and sure as fuck don't thank me!"

Shaking the skillet to keep the fish from sticking, River ignored the man, refusing to flinch when he stood and hobbled nearer. Whatever shyness had possessed him the night before was gone; he was ass naked, unabashed as he leaned against the wall to watch her. It was more than the black eye. His hostess looked exhausted, still filthy no matter her splashings in the lake.

His throat did feel raw when he spoke. "You haven't slept?"

"No," she snapped. "I haven't slept, sunshine. Sit down, food's ready." Turning with two plates of burnt fish she moved toward the table. "And for god's sake stop flapping your uncut dick around in my kitchen."

He seemed unsure. "Uncut?"

God help her, but a nervous giggle escaped at his lack of comprehension. The accent and foreign rumblings in his fever, she knew he wasn't from her hemisphere, but that didn't mean she was going to explain the concept of circumcision to him.

Never fully giving him her back, she uncovered day-old fry bread, put down silverware, and plopped into her chair. She was so fucking tired, and the man hobbling closer with his drawers fisted in his hand was making her uncomfortable. When he took a seat and shimmied into the scrap of clothing, the anxious pounding in her rib cage lessened and she made herself eat.

He eyeballed the unappetizing food, looking long and hard at her afterward before beefy fingers moved to the mask's latches.

Unsure what the big deal was, River pointed with her fork. "My cooking is pretty hit or miss. 20% hit 70% miss."

For a split second the mask was pulled away, Bane shoveling in as much as he could before shuddering and holding the contraption hard to his face. In a pained voice, he grunted, "You are missing 10%."

"The 10% is unmentionable." She took another bite, following his lead and eating quickly. "I would like to blame the gas range but if I did I would be lying."

He'd finished it all in three more repeats of the face stuffing first bites, strapping the mask tightly around his skull. "Have you contacted the authorities?"

"I radioed the Rangers this morning."

She was lying and it was painfully obvious to someone with his training. It was in his favor. His dedication to the League assured he'd be on FBI watch lists... sought by the CIA, Interpol. He could kill the horrid female and no soul would be the wiser.

Imminent incarceration would not be his tomorrow.

The way he stared, so cold, made her nervous. "Your tracks, Stranger, were obvious. Your size, their depth, the fact you walk with a limp. You'd be noticed and this is small country. And, yeah, I'm lying to you. I couldn't get through but that doesn't mean no one has their eye on me."

She had a point. The open shelves were stocked with canned goods, and though she appeared to be athletic under the lumpy sweater, a woman of her size could not carry all that food here alone.

In answer to his further contemplative silence, River explained, "No trucks get this deep, you're going to have to shelter and wait for snowfall. With more powder, I can take you on my sled. Or, if you want to try the hike it's two days to town. I'll draw a map on the back of your hand and we can see if you have better luck than last time."

"How far? Which direction?"

"Far. East." She gave an apologetic shrug, teasing, "If you leave right now, you might make it before the blizzard hits. Clever guy like you did see the sky. You know a storm is coming, right? Options are limited."

Bane said nothing.

"Your mask... the nebulized stuff, how long you got?"

More silence, the dense naked chest across from her expanding in a breath.

She'd seen how necessary the contraption was to him. "Do you need to be airlifted? I'll make the trip alone and notify authorities if that's the case; while I'm gone you can keep trying the radio and might get them here sooner."

"I do not require such a measure."

"Will it kill you if you run out? Are you some kind of asthmatic?"

"No." But, should it run out, it wouldn't be long before he'd wished he was dead. "It won't kill me."

Nodding, River said, "I scouted the area upstream from where I found you. I didn't find a camp or a pack... nothing. Do you have friends I need to worry about?"

"I have no one." Bane stood, hopping to spare his sprained ankle and bracing against the wall on the way to use her facilities.

When the bathroom door closed, she mumbled, "I'm sure you can thank your charming personality for that."

While he was in the bathroom, she hung up the laundry, cleaned up the fish guts, and left the couch for the wounded prick, slouching down in a recliner instead. She was reading a worn paperback by the time he navigated all the hanging clothes and reclaimed the sofa.

An hour passed and Bane didn't speak, but he did lean forward and tend the fire in her place when the time had come. When it was done, he grunted until she looked at him. "You've seen my face."

If he was trying to rationalize upcoming actions to her, it wasn't going to fly. A wink and smirk summed it up before she looked back to the page. "It ain't nothing to write home about, pretty boy. I like my men a bit more roughed up and craggy."

He said nothing, she pointedly picked up her book.

When her eye was on the page, Bane felt the need to say, "You believe you are superior to me."

Annoyed he was interrupting her reading, she muttered, "You think you're the first renegade I've found skulking around these woods? I know your type, ex-military who think they can go it alone under the impression they're so badass. You can't. This place will kill a fool unwilling to understand just how dangerous it can be. So, yeah; out here I am better than you."

"My survival skills are excellent."

Laughing was flat out mean but, by god, she couldn't hold it in. The book went to her lap and she gave the idiot her attention. "You're delusional! You had no weapon, not even a knife... were dressed improperly for this environment; dumb enough to have considered walking anywhere without basic supplies. If I didn't know better, if I hadn't seen half a dozen men like you trying to go it alone as Mr. Survivalist, I would say someone dumped you in the wilds to die."

And they had, she saw it written on his face, the way he looked to the side after her outburst telling. Rubbing her lips together, contrite, River pulled a breath. But her guest remained silent, staring through her again, so still it was abnormal.

Humming, leaning back into the old recliner, she said, "I never could figure them out, you know; people."

It was long minutes before a hoarse question came from the mask. "Is that why you live like this?"

"No, I'm on the run from the law." The wicked teasing, her smile; she wasn't going to tell the truth. The look in her eye also spoke that she wasn't going to ask him why he was where he was either. They could call it a wash. She didn't want to know.

"River," he tested her name on his tongue.

She nodded, a tired smirk showing relief that he'd used her name; humanized her. She'd do the same. "There is a herd of caribou... I saw their tracks earlier. We're going to need meat to get us through the coming storm. Tomorrow, you will help me carry back a kill."

His ankle was still a pulped mess, swollen and ugly. They both looked to it.

She spoke further, "I'll manage most of the weight, give you a staff to lean on, but you need to find your footing."

"Do you always talk like this, in layers? It is exceptionally irritating."

"English isn't your first language. Perhaps you misunderstand and hear what you want." White teeth flashed in a grin as she laid it out, "You looking to be nurtured or are you looking to survive? I gave you a night to laze by the fire, the rest you earn."

Bane had not been nurtured a goddamn day in his life. Not in the Pit, not in the care of the League of Shadows. No, he'd only been honed, a thing he recognized. Only Talia had ever wanted him and now she was so far from his reach he might as well have died. In a swell of fury, he slung his mask toward the nearest thing that could feel it. "I don't need your help!"

"You damn well fucking do." She settled back, the book cast aside so she might sleep.

"Your vulgar language is completely repellent."

River snickered, peeked out one eye and nodded, "There's the spirit. Feel free to call me ugly and disparage my clothes next. Get it all out big guy."

"Women are supposed to be clean and soft spoken! You stink of the burned fish you mutilated with your lack of cooking skills. I have never seen a free thing so low... so mud caked and unconcerned. Who could possibly want you? I DON'T NEED YOUR CHARITY!"

Her black eyes were languid as she let him rant his anger with others at her, patient through it until he raged to the point he stood and towered over her. Under the mask, she imagined the man chewing off his own lips, he howled so severely at her lack of anything reeking of humanity. She thought he might cry, and waited still, counting the pulses of the veins standing up in his neck.

He did scare her, he was scaring her, but a point needed to be made. The risk she'd taken saving a stranger bigger than a linebacker and as grateful as a psychopath put her in a bad position. Someone had left him to die... good men didn't get dumped in the cold. If he was going to kill her, she'd rather see it face on than wait for him to strangle her in her sleep. But a strange thing happened, when he leaned down, screaming another language in her face, she flinched and it seemed to wake him. Staggering back, he put distance between them... and those strange eyes looked... sorry.

There was no word of apology, just the sounds of a panting animal and the silence of a woman pretending she was not frightened of it. Never show fear in front of a rearing bear. You stand your ground and watch the damn thing... when you're alone later, that's when you get to puke.

He spoke just loud enough for her to hear him, "I don't think I am going to hurt you."

Fuck... "That's reassuring."

"You should have let me drown."

Perhaps he was right; it didn't change what she was. "I could never do that."

"...a noble woman." He said the words with more disgust than admiration.

Levity was her ally, "You forgot to add dirty..."

"It's a wonder you have survived this world."

It was an honest question, "Are we having an actual conversation now, or is this the precursor to something terrible?"

"The only thing I know how to be is terrible."

He was not disparaging himself. The man was, in effect, alluding to some sort of assumed twisted greatness dripping with insecurity he couldn't register.

"Seven hikers I have saved when I found them wandering, or hurt, or about to be eaten by nature they didn't respect as they should have. Twice that number were dead before I came across their tracks. Survivors always have one thing in common; they wanted to live more than they wanted to wallow in their stupidity. If you don't want to live, walk outside right now, take all that anger with you. Its dark, you won't last long but the fury might make you think you're warm as you freeze to death."

He paused a moment then took a seat on the couch. "Who would help you carry the caribou?"

Snorting, unable to stop a faint laugh, she admitted, "I'd just cut it up and make more than one trip. When I'm lucky, the smarter wildlife doesn't get to it before I get back."

"I will carry the animal, alone."

She gave him a soft look, a look that said she understood he lacked the capacity to apologize, and then she said, "You can't. As you are you can't carry a caribou by yourself. You shouldn't even try; you don't know the way; there is no point in posturing... Not out here. Out here you're nothing... brand new."

The weight of his elbows rested on his knees, the man turning his attention back to the hearth and ending the conversation. Bane didn't think sleep would come, not like it did for the woman breathing softly in her chair. He was weary, too tired to rest. But sleep did come and when he woke, she was gone and didn't return until past dark, banging through the door with a brace of rabbits and a bulging pack full of red meat that could have only come from one animal.

"Don't look at me like that, jerk. Your ankle looks like shit. You can't carry shit. All you would do is get in my way stumbling around and scaring off dinner." She was surly... her hair wet as if she'd dunked her head in the river to scrub out the dirt he'd found so offensive. "And you snore!"

The food was stowed and she built up the fire, sending hate filled glares at the man while she leaned her hair closer and tried to keep her teeth from chattering.

"I left the heat pump syphoning and wasted wood so you might take a cozy shower, pretty boy, so stop staring at me and get to it. You reek of sick guy and I'm sick of smelling you."

She'd been so unresponsive the prior evening, so still when he'd grossly insulted her; now she was all claws and hissing. Unsure why, Bane offered, "I should not have said those things."

"Fuck off."

* * *

**The support I am receiving on this story is mind boggling. THANK YOU!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He needed her.

Assassinations, warfare, violence, and a lifetime in the Pit would not see him through in her wilds. That became clearer when Bane took to the porch, looking for a vantage. Her house stood on high ground, but there was nothing ... not even a line of smoke in the sky in the direction River claimed civilization waited.

The last few hours she'd been far less vocal, busy preparing the house for what the swollen green clouds were bringing. Locking her shutters tight, River looked through the fur lining her hood and asked, "Can you clean a rabbit?"

He could clean a rat; knew what parts tasted best raw. Rabbits could not be much different. "Yes."

Pointing at what she'd dragged home, River ordered, "You take care of that while I check the traps I missed."

"Lingering outside in this weather with wet hair is unwise."

"Oh lah-de-dah." River banged a fist against the shutters, testing their tightness. "So is shaving your head in the arctic."

It seemed the stranger was a master at pointing out the obvious, "You are angry with me."

"I don't much like you." She threw him a look. "And there is no need to point out that the feeling is mutual."

"Then I won't."

River chuckled, black eyes shining as if he'd finally succumbed to humor. "When you're done with the rabbits, you need to bring in wood. See these piles. One is green, one is seasoned. Don't mix them. Separate stacks each side of the fireplace. As much as you can manage."

With an elk rifle across her back, she left him, moving easy and light over the frost in a way he couldn't with his sprained ankle. When she returned with only a few squirrels, her teeth chattering, River opened the door to find she wasn't losing her mind. The appealing scent in the smoke was rabbit, her houseguest having spit one to roast over the fire.

It smelled good. Really good. And the noise of her stomach made it clear her body approved.

Bane watched her entry ceremony, the way she kicked her left boot clean before the right, the tell-tale flakes of snow on her shoulders. All her movements led with the left, including her left hand wiping her running nose, but her gun hung from the opposite side, she was a novice to wear it so wrongly.

But she'd killed a caribou...

All River cared to notice was the juicy rabbit, not the oversized idiot who'd prepared it.

Bane turned the spit, juice dripping to sizzle in the flames.

"Oh my god, please tell me it's ready." Outerwear was shed, River less interested in heating up than stuffing her face with something she hadn't ruined on the stove.

"We may eat."

She was grinning, kneeling at his side to pick at the animal with her fingers and eat straight from the spit.

Bane ignored where her arm kept bumping against him in the woman's enthusiasm, priding himself in his offer, "As you gave me the greater portion of your fish—"

Scoffing, mouth full, River said, "You're about twenty times my size."

He finished as if she had not interrupted, "—you may have most of the rabbit."

Looking out the corner of her eye, River's brows drew together. He was so weird. "I can have more than half of the rabbit I caught?"

Stress was applied to the affirmation, "Yes."

She laughed, really laughed, before she bumped his arm, "You're so generous. Lucky for you, I couldn't eat that much if I wanted to. Help yourself."

Bane's large fingers pulled chunks - not bits, not morsels - huge hunks off the bone and placed them in a stack. Pretending not to notice the abnormal obsession he had with lining up his food, careful to keep her eyes where she was picking the best part of the rabbit to chew, River shifted to give him more room. Just like the last meal, the mask was pulled after a deep inhalation, and all those lumps, in systematic order, were shoved into his mouth.

Behind the mask Bane's cheeks filled up like a chipmunk's, and he chewed in time to his strange system, working down that hunk of food without having to pull the mask away again. The ritual was repeated until the two of them had picked the bones bare.

Sucking her fingers clean, River sat back on her heels, and glanced to her unlikely companion. "Thank you."

The twitch in his brow, the way they slightly drew together... the stranger did not know what to make of the statement. His mouth was still full, River's timing intentional, and all Bane could do was look her way.

Unsmiling, not at all playful, she said it again, "Thank you."

He nodded once, earning himself a less hostile expression. Bane's attention went to the darker smear below her eye, the bruise he'd caused. He had to have been weak when she'd seen to him for the mark to be so small, for the socket to be intact. The slope of her nose wasn't broken, it still sat straight, aquiline.

The girl could have killed him.

The way the stranger looked to her face, it wasn't in a judgmental search for beauty, or to make her uncomfortable. River saw it in him, ignorant curiosity, as if the huge man were allowing himself to do something prohibited while they shared a moment of neutrality. It was almost childlike, and not the first time she'd sensed something confused and utterly unknowing in him. So she held still and allowed it.

"Women must look different where you're from."

Bane hardly knew. Sisters in the League of Shadows had been kept away from him, the only woman he'd regularly conversed with, little Talia. The rest he'd seen were on missions; some he'd been sent to kill. And no, they did not look like the almond eyed native with her matching braids - like Tiger Lily from a book Talia had loved when she was still small. But if he were to say that the hissing female would grow angry again. He was certain.

He had to ask, "The men in this region, do they find you beautiful?"

There was no guile in the question, still it stung. "You'd have to ask them."

"You seem to align with the western concept of exotic." River's lip curled and his attention went to her mouth. Bane answered her sneer, reminding, "You found fault in my face."

The man really had no grasp of sarcasm and she was tired of him. "I find fault in your attitude. Great fault. Massive fault."

Dry, Bane responded, "Platitudes are pointless. Do you really think insincere gratitude will alter the situation? Change what's going to happen to you?"

He had such a knack for making her blood run cold. River's voice went lower, hard, and serious, "I'll tell you what I know. The storm will pass. You're going to leave and it will be as if you were never here."

Bane seemed to consider her words, his arm growing warm from crouching too near the fire for too long. "I could come back."

No, she was certain. "You won't."

A blast of wind screamed past the cabin, the shudders shook, and the storm hit with a vengeance. River dismissed him, settling in her chair after taking a book from the shelves, leaving Bane to burn the bones of dinner and tend the fire while she began a story, reading aloud before he got more ideas of speaking.

It was abnormal, at first, the woman's rendition of a great man's work, more so her skill for voices. Positioning himself on the couch where the most distance was between them Bane rested his ankle, watched the flames, and just listened.

* * *

When the clock showed morning the girl was sound asleep, her nose tucked into a sloppy braid. Bane hadn't slept. He'd managed little more than staring straight ahead at the flames, hating his hostess for drifting off and abandoning the slight distraction her story had offered.

Then hating her more for choosing a book so engaging he desired to know what happened next. More than once he'd considered reaching out, taking her shoulders, and shaking her awake to continue... or shaking her so hard her neck snapped... or wrapping his hands around her throat and squeezing until her eyes bulged and that damn throat could not make another sound... or scooting nearer to look at her the way he tried not to when her sticky tar eyes met his and puzzled him... because she did not shrink back.

He'd seen so few women.

If they were anything like the specimen trapped with him in a cabin the size of a coffin, the idea of encountering more was less than appealing.

The hours wore on. Whatever sleep deprivation she'd suffered was covered for, more than adequately, River almost comatose when Bane eased closer, staring.

Shuttered windows blocked what little sunlight might have broken through the storm, yet he watched by the firelight. Watched the line of illumination creep over the monstrosity huddled in sleep.

Talia had hair a similar shade.

Thumbing the end of the nearest rope, Bane found the texture similar. His little one was fairer, her eyes a pretty blue so rare in his part of the world. Dark eyes were nothing; black eyes behind greasy lids even less inspiring.

Common. The female was common.

Quintessential.

And she lacked the archetype necessary for female survival. She had no male.

There were no man's things visible in her ramshackle cabin, leading her to have an overabundance of masculine qualities to cover for her lack of success in drawing a protector. She'd grown crass. She was foul, unkempt. River was unacceptable to society. That had to be why she lived like a hermit.

Talia would always have protection. Thousands of League of Shadows brothers, even sisters, would lay down their life for her if she so much as batted an eyelash. No one in their right mind would do such a thing for the woman who'd dragged him out of the water.

Bane pulled the overabundance of her braid nearer, disturbed it was so long. The thickness of River's hair did feel like Talia's, but his angel had never grown it so excessively. Not in the Pit when he'd kept her head shaved so she might live free of lice, not in the training years when long hair was a disadvantage. She'd only started growing it a few years ago to assimilate into European society for school. University, Ducard had said. Because of the mask Bane had not been allowed to follow.

Too conspicuous.

Like River's over-long hair.

The female moved in her chair, a little disgruntled noise coming from her puckered mouth. Looking down, Bane found he'd coiled River's hair around his fist, that he was tugging it, and dropped the braid like a hot coal.

* * *

River didn't much like the way he grunted at her food. Two mornings in the dark she'd graciously used powdered eggs. That shit was precious out in the boonies. She'd even thrown in some dehydrated cheese and folded the mess to sorta resemble an omelet.

He'd narrowed his eyes.

She'd used salt! Everyone and their mother loved salt. So what the fuck? So what if his rabbit on a stick had tasted good. What the fuck else had he done but stack wood? Too much wood, she might add. The bonehead had piled two stacks up to the ceiling, creating an accident waiting to happen should any supporting logs decide they no longer wanted their jobs.

Idiot.

"This is adequate."

River held her fork, the poor utensil squeezed in her fist, and fantasized about stabbing him with it. "It's eggs."

The underlying agitation in her voice made no sense to him. "I know what eggs are."

She grit her teeth. "I used cheese."

"The sour additive was unnecessary."

Wondering what the jackass would do if she threw her plate against the wall, River shoveled in the last of her meal, using the distraction of her thoughts to keep her from attacking the moron. When her plate was done she did not throw it at the wheezing idiot's head. Instead she tossed the plastic dish toward the sink and let the ricochet off the wall suffice.

River left the table, unaware of the expression behind the mask. She wanted space, but the howling outside, the fact that twice she'd already dug out the door, reminded her there would be no space.

What she really wanted was a drink.

"Next time you cook, Mr. I'm so fucking perfect at food things!"

"Your arguments are tired and growing far more irrational."

Two days prior she'd worried he was going to kill her; now all River wondered was how long it would be before she killed him. Spinning, looking at the intruder, she said, "Do you have any idea how hard it is to get eggs here?"

"No."

"Hard, dickhead. They clump, they sour, they just don't keep."

"I said the meal was adequate."

The small house could not hold such a big voice. "You know what would be a really good idea? Stop saying things!"

"Read another story."

River's furious tapping of her foot stopped. It wasn't the first time he'd asked. Well, ordered was a more accurate description. She knew he knew that it would shut her mouth, that she would take a book and all would settle. Rubbing her lips together, she frowned. The space between her brows relaxed and she reached for a hardcover.

Taking a seat in her chair, the looming man shuffling toward the far end of the couch, River opened the book and began. Three pages in, that was it. River was going mad. He'd Pavlov's dogs her.

Snapping the book shut she glared. "That was the best I could do. I shared my best supplies."

"_Best_ is subjective to opinion," Bane said. "But I have had much worse."

Elbow to the armrest, River rubbed her face. Statements like that were making her crazy. "Princess, you need to learn some manners."

"Your need to name call is asinine, as is your attempt to degrade me by comparing me to a woman. You are a woman. Your argument only makes you seem even further below me."

It started as cough. The noise caught in River's throat, her face grimaced as she tried to keep it down. But she couldn't. Gut busting laughs took over. "You should be so lucky to be a girl! I call you princess because you are so damn snotty with your straight back and holier-than-thou comments. You're a walking cliché."

Bane watched her flush, saw her anger had been redirected, but not the way he was engineering. Growling, he leaned closer, "Explain."

"No."

"Explain."

River simpered, looking at the agitated man and shaking her head no.

"I told you the food was adequate!" Bane roared, standing from the couch.

Less than one-hundred hours she'd been with the man, witnessing reactions and gauging intent. He was as hotheaded as she was, no matter how he tried to hide it under a drying cement personality.

River threw him a bone, far more amused now that he was the angry one, "Learn how to lie."

"If I told you your cooking was good... a lie of that magnitude would serve no purpose. Furthermore, you would know I was lying."

Tugging her braids, River sneered, "It's polite to acknowledge effort."

"What effort?" Bane demanded." You melted snow and added powder until it curdled. I have done more with less."

Rapping her fingers on the armrest, River challenged, "Then, _prince charming_, from now on you cook."

He had been so close to winning; so close to shoving her down. But the woman had just stood up after her mandate and went to the door. Worse yet, she'd opened it, flooding the room in wind and snow. When it was closed, her jacket was gone, the elk rifle too.

Two hours of dark and River came back, chilled to the bone and empty handed. Bane had made stew. They ate without speaking, the silence only broken by River picking up the next chapter of the story she'd chosen to read.

* * *

The room was dark when he awoke. River was still in her chair, reading aloud, having ignored the fire.

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_I have walked out in rain -and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light._

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._

_I have passed by the watchman on his beat_

_And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet_

_When far away an interrupted cry_

_Came over houses from another street,_

_But not to call me back or say good-bye;_

_And further still at an unearthly height_

_One luminary clock against the sky_

_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right._

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

The way she read, the oration, she knew each word by heart even though her eyes traced where they marked the page. "That is glorious." She sighed lowering the book to her lap. Head tipped back in the chair she spoke to the air. "I am a dismal poet. I can't see the world the way Robert Frost could."

"Your statement is ridiculous." Bane sneered, highly annoyed there were only coals that he must tend. "That poem sums up things you already know."

"You were supposed to be asleep with all the wheezing and snores." She rolled her head a little to the side to look at his masked profile. "I wasn't talking to you. I don't want to talk to you. Go back to bed."

"If the fire dies, you risk freezing to death."

River looked to the hearth and frowned, waking up from whatever had made her voice dreamlike, she cursed. Bane watched her scuttle, stacking a large pile straight and crossways so it might burn hottest and longest. There was no flaw, no correction he could offer to make the embers more effective. Striking a match to ignite the top, River's face came more into view.

She looked sad.

"I don't like that face you're making." Bane did not even know why he said it, he just did not want to see her frown, or deal with the screeching that would follow. "It's pointless to waste time on dissatisfaction... with your inability to write like Robert Frost."

She gave him a dazzling smile, Bane was immediately on alert from the rancor under the sweet curve of feminine lips. "Pointless is it?"

Even with the mask's interference, he could smell the anger on her. "Yes."

"How would you know? Talking to you is like talking to a child. How could you understand what matters in my life? It isn't pointless!"

The animal growl of, "I am not a child," should have withered the woman he snarled at. It didn't. River was too far in her temper. "You are the one in a tantrum."

"You're right." The statement was shrill and followed with the woman throwing the book of poetry on the building flames... only to suck in a breath and dive in for it when it caught. River beat the cover, almost weeping as she smoothed the charred edges. She said it again in a tone of despair, looking at the book as if she'd wounded her lover. "You're right."

"Give it to me."

River handed it over as if she didn't deserve to touch the pages any longer. Watching large hands tug it from her, she pulled her knees to her chin. Her eyes did not leave the cover, ruined as it was, while Bane turned the warm object right-way up, thumbed to a random page and began to read aloud so she might keep her feelings quiet and not further poison the air.

He read her to sleep, River sprawled on the floor and too near the flames. He watched to make certain no flying ember sparked her, annoyed, yet grasping the opportunity to see such a thing so near the light. Some details about her were reminiscent of the first woman he'd ever seen - the shade of River's skin similar, the shape of her arms. The one on the ground chewed her nails to stubs, yet still there was grit under them. Talia's mother had always taken pains to keep herself as clean as possible given substandard conditions, and all League sisters adhered to a strict hygiene standard.

He could smell River's sweat as he smelled the men in the Pit, but at the same time it was absolutely different. It seemed almost a natural highlight, that odor - like it belonged to her and her glossy braids. Before the storm made it impossible, every heated shower had been for him, and for the first time Bane wondered if she'd missed her bathing ritual. He could not be sorry for it though, not when it gave him the chance to smell and analyze female.

River had claimed she'd seen other men naked, Bane had not forgotten. She'd fornicated; claimed to prefer weather-beaten males. As a League soldier Bane had taken a vow of chastity, the only female body he'd ever seen naked, the child version of Talia when he'd cleaned and tended the small thing.

"I am scarred. My flesh is worn. I am not pretty."

River only groaned in sleep and turned so her back might feel the heat of the flames.

Whatever had possessed him to argue his aptitude as a male under her qualifications was silenced. Bane felt foolish; unsure why he had spoken.

But then why shouldn't he. He had been excommunicated, his vows rescinded.

The sleeping shrew became more interesting. After all, why should he not partake? Why should he seclude himself under an order who'd rejected him and a master who'd betrayed him? From that moment forward, there were no rules but those he chose to make.

He would do as he pleased.

For the first time in many years, he felt a twinge and looked down at his crotch as if such a thing were astounding. More blood pumped to quell the anger and hurt of rejection, but not enough. Half hard, Bane looked back at the sleeping monster and hated her for knowing things he did not.

* * *

After sleeping on the chair, then the floor, River was sore and stiff. She wanted her couch back but the wail of wind slapping against the logs of her house made it clear the storm had not thought of letting up. The loud breathing thing that stole half her air had soured on her.

He was always in the way.

If the fucker bumped her one more time, she was going to poison his food.

"Why do you have no husband?"

It was questions like that that were making homicide far more appealing. "I'm a lesbian."

"You previously claimed to like men."

Rubbing her temples, River sighed, "I don't need a husband. If anyone in this room needs a husband, it's you. Maybe he could even dislodge that stick crammed up your ass."

"I do not care for sexual interactions with men."

That... that very way he spoke so honestly in reaction to her mockery always make her snicker. She just couldn't help it.

"What is funny?"

River flat out giggled. Seeing she had to answer or he would continue with his poking questions, she offered, "But you cook so well... You know, melting snow and adding powder to it until it is far superior to all other melted snow and powder. You, Stranger, are an exemplary housewife."

The man snarled, "I am the male. The greatest! I provide and others follow."

A playful punch hit his arm, the man looking down to where she's struck him as if he could not comprehend the swat.

"Oh, for fuck sake, lighten up. I provided all the food. The meat _I_ killed, the wood _I_ chopped, everything you are sheltered in came from me." River rolled her eyes and walked away muttering, "Guess that makes me the male in your chauvinistic classification of things."

"You would be torn apart in seconds where I came from, small woman - ripped to shreds, screaming. Had you known me you would come running, begging for my shelter."

The comedy was over. River gnawed a nail, hating the way he could color a room and remind her that he was actually terrifying beyond his bumbling inquiries. "I can take care of myself."

"Not there. There you would die." Bane's answer was matter of fact, the man going back to drying the clean dish she had handed him. "The way you smell would only bring that end sooner."

The psycho's insults were easier to stomach than his eluded to craziness. Handing over the last dish, River glared, held the colorless eyes of the man and said nothing.

His gaze narrowed. "Take your hair from the braids."

"No." River let the plate slip from between them to clatter on the wood floor, walking past.

* * *

**Hello friends! I hope you are all enjoying your holiday season. I asked for a puppy for Christmas. I don't think I am going to get one. :P**

**Thank you to all my dear reviewers! It's because of you that I am posting this chapter so soon. I love you guys and gals.**

**On another note, I have been working on the follow-up to Born to be Bred. It is not going to be a oneshot like I originally planned, more like a novella (at least for now) and some parts of it will be dark. What I want to know from you is, what you are hoping to see?**

**One more thing, just in case it wasn't clear the poem was written by the wonderful Robert Frost. Every time I read it it makes me think of Gotham.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

The woman was in the bathroom, scrubbing her body with the bucket of fresh powder collected after she'd dug out the door. Like a metronome, came a muffled shriek then a curse, the sound of her elbow banging the wall, over and over.

Ankle improved, Bane paced, slowly strengthening the limb and easing any lingering swelling through careful movement. Back and forth before her bookcases he shuffled, staring at various covers more interesting than the wood walls. Having already read through all the trail guides as she slept, possessing a fair grasp of where he was now and which map he would need, he ignored them in place of poetry and fiction, novels well-worn and fading, a large book on cosmetics… He pulled it out to see the pages were still glossy though it was clear she had at least skimmed through it. Grabbing a book that looked different than the rest, he lay back on the couch and began to read.

The female was taking an inordinate amount of time.

Bane checked the fire. It needed no tending. The blankets did not need folding. His eyes went back to the book, then the bathroom, then the book again. The bathroom door opened. River emerged wearing a different set of shapeless lumpy clothing, hugging herself, teeth chattering. He knew she would go to her perch by the fire to warm, a little to the left, nearer the poker, as she did every day. He also knew that speaking to her when she was very cold would result in unsavory conversation.

His eyes went back, again, to the book. Ten minutes passed.

"Do you like that story?"

"No."

"Care to elaborate?" River scooted nearer, eyeballing the cover. "What do you dislike about that book?"

"The protagonist is unbelievable… real men do not behave in this manner."

Words mangled by chattering teeth, River snickered through, "No shit. That's why women buy romance novels. Real men are usually self-serving jerks."

Looking at the cover where a shirtless muscular man embraced a woman in a yellow gown Bane asked, "Women want men to behave this way?"

"I think you're missing the point." It was funny enough finding the man reading a romance novel, and ten times more amusing that he didn't even quite grasp what was in his hand. "It's just a story where, say a neglected wife might pretend to be the heroine... where she's pretty, stylish, the one the handsome stranger can't live without. She doesn't have to think about making dinner or getting the kids ready for bed. Books like that are just a little harmless escape; one small fling with a fantasy you don't have to wake up next to and feed for the rest of your life."

"Why do you have it?"

"It came with the cabin." River winked. "Let me chose one I think you'll like better." Standing, she went straight to an old hardback missing its jacket. Sitting back in her chair, she opened it and began to read aloud.

The two stories were like night and day. There was no more pastoral setting and long flirtatious looks, but an ancient city ripe with murder. In Bane's opinion, it was the best book she'd chosen so far. He understood the violence, the darker thoughts of the characters... there were even parts that were funny.

He wheezed something that sounded almost like a laugh.

River looked up, she even smiled at him, "...he likes it."

Bane's eyes narrowed. "Continue."

The woman's grin expanded. "Say please."

"I do not like your cooking," Bane stared at her, unblinking, mean, "But you have proven to be an adequate hunter. You understand the necessities of survival here and adapt. You also read well."

Cabin fever had clearly driven River insane. That was the only thing to account for believing she'd heard her guest offer a borderline compliment. "It's just one word. You can say it and I'll never tell."

"Please."

He'd made the woman happy with so small a thing; she glowed as she sat back in her chair, husky words spinning the tale as if she made a greater effort to do well.

The nature of the tale was graphic, violent, but he grew soothed under the power of her voice. Perched on the couch, his ankle elevated, it seemed peaceful.

Peaceful was abnormal, causing him to interrupt her in the middle of a very gruesome murder scene, "Why did you choose this story?"

Resting the open book on her lap, she ran her fingers across the page. "I knew it would be comfortable for you."

Brows drew down over displeased eyes; that was not exactly a compliment. Sitting up he leaned closer. He was going to say something cutting but it would have only proven her point. The lightest of quirks changed her lips, as if she knew he'd been verbally waylaid.

"I still do not understand why you live alone in the forest."

The dark fringe of her lashes went down, her eyes found the book again. River continued to read.

Very few people would dare to disregard him, she'd done so often. "Answer the question."

"That was a statement." She looked over the top of her book.

Bane scooted fractionally closer.

Ignoring him, River continued the story, picking up right where they had left off.

Fingers hooked the top of her book and Bane pulled it down so that she had to look at him again... so he could look at her. The female had known he was dangerous the second she fished him out of the water, yet she had invited him in, saved him from death by exposure.

He could hardly understand her. "Are you that naive or that fearless?"

River spoke the simple truth, "You are not going to kill me."

No, he was not. "Keep reading."

* * *

Brushing against her when they tended the dishes, seeking to grab her attention, had only irritated the woman. Demanding she take down her hair made her walk away.

It had taken another day but she'd been watching him, leaning against the wall of her house, her arms crossed over her chest. The expression on her face altered from confusion, to humor, to a sense of being impressed, all the way back to confusion again. Gaining her attention had been almost laughably easy; all it took was simple, necessary exercises. Sit-ups had made her shake her head at him, the woman scuttling out of the way. It was the push-ups that followed... those had brought about the confounded look on her face and unwavering attention.

"How many have you done?"

His eyes had not once looked from the female. "Three hundred fifty three."

"How many can you do?"

The mask wheezed with Bane's answer, " As there is no weight on my back, at least one thousand."

River cocked her head, squinting a little as she imagined such a thing. "Weight? Like a person?"

"At my strength level, resistance is necessary for expedited improvement."

"So if I sit on you, this will end quicker and I can reclaim my living room?"

"Yes."

River walked up, waited for him to hold plank, and sat right across his shoulder blades. When he immediately started right where he left off, she started to laugh. "I didn't really believe you."

She was about to hop off, to leave him to continue, but he barked, "Remain where you are."

It's not like she had anything better to do. "Are you going to bench press me next?"

In a grunt, he answered, "You are too light to offer sufficient resistance."

Having to brace a little to keep in place, her hands felt what made him bigger than a grizzly bear beneath his thermal. The stranger was a rock, inhuman, everything bulging under her palm. "Just watching you do this is making me sorer."

Freezing inches from the ground, Bane turned his head to look at the woman from the corner of his eye. "Due to the storm, there has been little need for you to perform physical labor. You have no call to be sore."

"Pffft," River cocked her chin at the couch. "You've been sleeping on my bed for six nights now. The chair is not nearly so comfortable."

He started to stand, River toppling unexpectedly, only to yip when he moved with inhuman quickness, twisting her arms over her breasts. Bane spun her around, and yanked her back up against his chest. One good jolt and the bones in her spine popped, the startled woman squealing with some half-groan throat noise.

She just hung like a wet noodle, unsure for a moment if her legs would work.

"Is that not better?"

She managed to squeak, "Umm...Yeah," when her feet found the floor, and over-huge python arms let her go. "A little warning would have been nice."

Behind the mask Bane frowned, watching River plop belly down on the couch. "You would have tensed, making the adjustment less effective."

"It was _effective_. I feel like everything went cockeyed."

Beefy fingers flipped up the hem of her sweater before River realized what he was doing. When she cursed and tried to shuffle off, a flat palm pressed her into the cushions. Thumb and forefinger pinched down her bared spine. "Everything is in alignment. It feels unnatural because you are unaccustomed to proper spinal positioning."

"Stop poking at me, jerk!"

He ignored her complaint. "Hold still."

The pad of a thumb dug in from the base of her neck and drew down the left side of her spine. A jump of muscle, another yelp, and tension was forced off. He even managed to draw out an agitated sigh. The process was repeated on the other side.

Kneading the way that best alleviated his discomfort, he found her squirming less and settling more. A shoulder was cupped, drawn up so the blade projected and he could reach the smaller muscle groups beneath it. She held still and allowed it, going so far as to stifle a groan when he forced a knot to release.

The more he touched the less clinical it became, there was too much to learn from such a grand amount of exposed flesh. He was correct about her athleticism, though he assumed her physique came from hiking and the necessary labor of survival in the wilds, not organized exercise. But it wasn't her musculature that had his eye. The entirety of her exposed back was painted, a tattoo alive with the movement of gentle muscle under vivid skin. He traced it with his fingers, the design complicated, created by a master of both flow and color, absorbing the hours upon hours she'd submitted to a needle, to pain, for a thing of such beauty.

A rising phoenix and the flowering branches of a tree embedded in the totality of the design. It extended beyond where faded jeans covered hips and buttocks, above the bunched up fabric of her ugly sweater.

The portrait was breathtaking, the subject unique.

It wrapped her side, asymmetrical, and he needed to know what remained hidden. But when he tried to turn her to see it, she pulled down her sweater and began to sit up.

Bane wanted her back as she was. "I am not finished."

"Look, a lot of people get the wrong idea when they see the tattoo. It doesn't mean you can touch me."

He didn't understand. "My back is also marked."

"Oh yeah?" River was uncomfortable, sitting back into the cushion while the man continued to hover too near. "Let me guess, a tribal tattoo or your name in script? The same ugly smear every meathead wears."

"No." Bane stood and moved the short distance to continue his exercise, no longer in a pleasing mood.

The atmosphere was awkward, River irritated he'd walked away. "Well, what is it?"

Making no effort to answer, no longer looking at her as he strengthened his body, Bane went back to his endless push-ups. She wasn't having it. Their fights always ended with a clear winner - her. Silence was not an option. Rolling from the couch she walked right over and did to him what he'd done to her, flipping up his thermal to see what she'd missed when she'd stripped his lake sodden clothes.

"Oh... my... god..." The words were hardly a breath.

Every muscle on the man flexed, his back rippling as she gaped. It was starting to make sense, why he wore plastic and metal tubing strapped to his face, why he could hardly move without it. The scars were only the beginning. You could still see places where bone was missing or protruded wrongly. The very structure designed to support his body had crumbled.

She didn't quite understand it, but she felt terrible. "I'm sorry."

Popping to his knees, glowering at her as if he might strike should she misstep, he hissed, "Why should you apologize?"

"Does it hurt?"

A fist flew out so quickly River never even saw him grab her shirt, only felt him yank her down so they were eye level. "I have risen above such mediocrity as infirmity and pain."

"So I see..." Half kneeling, half hanging by the grip he had on her clothes, River deadpanned.

It was an animal noise. "Pitying me would be your last mistake."

"Pitying you is what saved your life." Her hands went to his chest, to push just enough to make a point, she wanted him to let go. "Or did you forget? I pulled you from the lake, got the water from your lungs. I _breathed_ for you."

"What did it feel like?"

The suddenness of his question, the instant shifted tenor of his speech unbalanced her. Unsure what he was asking she muttered, "The water—"

"When you breathed for me," correcting her, Bane hardened his phrasing again, "What did that feel like?"

Her eyes went to the mask, where she knew a mouth was hidden that did not belong to such a man. "Perhaps... like an awkward kiss."

By the grip on her sweater he pulled her a little nearer, "What if it wasn't an _awkward_ kiss. What does that feel like?"

Swallowing, watching his pale-eyed expression, or at least what she could make out above the mask, she was unsure how to answer. "Ummm... fuck... that entirely depends on the participants and the goal."

Bane spoke the words slowly, "You've seen me without the mask."

It wasn't the first time the virulent male had made that claim. River colored a little, thinking she might be hearing something in the statement she'd missed before.

When she didn't offer the reply he was pressing for, Bane grunted, "Well?"

She had to say something. "And since I know what's going to happen, and you know I know what's going to happen... if you were to take it off, you'd want to try a kiss."

The man just nodded.

Black eyes looked back where lips were hidden, confused. "You'll be in pain."

He seized her statement as acquiescence, Bane using his free hand to immediately reach for the latches. A deep breath was sucked in, and the contraption jerked off. His mouth was on hers before River could really grasp how far the situation had snowballed. He pressed in so hard her neck gave. Trying to steady herself she grabbed broad shoulders, River only making it so far as to jump when he tasted the seam of her lips and garbled her squeak. The kiss was entirely one-sided, ending almost as quickly, and abruptly, as it began.

Bane felt failure come with the shaking of musculature his spine could not support. The mask was pressed over his mouth, huge gasping breaths drawn in. It took him a moment to register she was patting his shoulders, the feeling somewhat familiar as River had done it when he was fevered, cooing her curse words to coerce compliance.

The second he could find the means to speak Bane argued, "You didn't kiss me back."

Really? "You didn't give me a chance to!"

Irritated the woman always snarled, Bane sucked in another breath, lowered the mask, and glared.

So very tempted to pop him right in the mouth, River curled her lip, leaned forward, and gave Bane his first real kiss. It was soft, the way she ran her lips over the beauty of his. A full lower lip was sucked into her mouth, one tiny swipe of her tongue teasing the flesh before she nipped and let go.

Bane just stared, severely disappointed when River pressed the hand gripping his mask back in place so he might remember to breathe. She untangled his weakened fingers from her sweater, murmuring, "That is what a kiss feels like."

The analgesic kicked in, Bane rubbing his lips together behind the grate as River grabbed her coat and went out into the storm.

Encased by the zipper of his cargo pants was something aching, something long foreign.

Standing so as not to put more pressure on his cock, Bane looked at the door, annoyed she had left just as his body responded and progress could have been made. In the freezing cold of her bathroom, he reached into his pants, withdrawing pulsing flesh that had not known attention in almost a decade. Thinking of how soft her skin had felt, how strange her lips had tasted, he pumped his fist.

Imagining that same mouth on him again, Bane came, the strength of the orgasm uncomfortable.

* * *

It would have been easier had she not heard him, the grunts and groans, the obvious noises of the stranger jacking off. But she had. He'd been loud enough she'd heard him over the storm and hated herself for edging nearer.

All that ferocity had been ... hot.

Hot wrapped up in crazytown.

She'd left the room because things had gotten out of hand, and as usual, they were not communicating on the same level. In all fairness, River had never thought he would actually kiss her - not when she'd seen how he crumbled without the immediate relief of his mask. The man who could do a thousand push-ups but could not walk two steps were she to take the thing from his skull and run with it. Yet he'd willingly pulled it off, even knowing she was aware of his weakness.

River wasn't sure if that made her more comfortable, or less.

And now he was grunting in her bathroom and her ear was to the wall.

That's it. She was a total pervert.

River thanked god it was below freezing, and thanked him again when the man groaned his release thinking that was the end of it... then cursed herself for listening on to enjoy the extension of his moans. It wasn't cold enough anywhere for any woman to not get a little turned on by something so base.

Six days trapped in a room was making her crazy. As he was already crazy, he seemed totally unaffected. It wasn't fair.

Her bad judgment aside, she would have to go back in there.

Everything would be fine, River told herself, letting the cold work on her further.

It would have been fine too, just peachy, except when she opened the door he was waiting for her, his top half totally bare.

He barked when she halted, "Why did you not retrieve a bucket of snow?"

River just stared, forcing herself to only look at his eyes, acting just as stupidly as he had only twenty minutes prior.

He looked annoyed, reaching past her to grab the empty bucket. Even stepping into the frigid night to fill it and stomp back inside while she crushed herself to the doorframe to stay out of the way.

The beast disappeared back into the bathroom to bathe accumulated sweat away with the powder, leaving River to clean up all the snow she'd let blow into the house.

When it was done, she went to her chair and felt her back begin to ache again. Darting glances to the still vacant couch, frustrated and vengeful toward the jerk who'd put her in a constant state of tension, she slipped from the recliner and reclaimed her bed.

He didn't want pity?... well then his ass could sleep on the floor.

The cushions didn't smell right, or the pillow. They smelled of a man with more physical definition than a Greek god and the personality of mud... mud with very pretty lips she had kissed because she was foolish enough to rise to a taunt.

Mud that threatened subtly and often to murder her.

Mud that was coming back into the room, grunting to see her in the sleeping place of _honor_.

Eyes still closed, speaking into the pillow, River said, "If you think I am moving from this couch after you _fixed_ my back, you're stupider than you look."

Bane settled on the rug, "Your contrary behavior is predictable, ascertaining the pattern was simple."

Turning her head so she might grin down at the man, River cooed, ready to make him as uncomfortable as he made her, "Disappointed I didn't swoon like the maiden in the book?"

Arm behind his head, he replied to the ceiling, "I heard you outside."

He wasn't supposed to have answered that way. "Yeah, well I _heard_ you inside."

Those odd, colorless eyes darted right to hers. "You enjoyed it, knowing I imagined fucking you, just as I enjoyed knowing you were listening."

River was not sure what shocked her more, the bluntness of his declaration or the fact the oversized cretin had used foul language. "You... you can't say things like that."

How odd that she would not look him in the eye; it was the first time the female had demurred. To make his point and seal his victory, Bane affirmed, "I can."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

River had woken cautious, the same way those new to the Pit, those who had yet to learn the darkness they lived in, woke. It was that in-between place of disbelief - that place where things could not possibly be as they seemed – where one thought memory was all some grand ruse.

Bane almost imagined she could smell her fate in the air… or maybe she could hear it now that the wind had died down.

When River uncurled from the ball she'd slept in, back cracking as the female groaned, she too seemed to notice a palpable change. Wiping the back of her hand under her nose, she looked to Bane… and seemed confused.

"What are you looking at?"

He'd waited; he'd watched for hours, as the woman slept far too much. "I'm looking at you."

Something buzzed far more than his general nearness, and River was determined to unsettle things back to their grating status quo. She purred at him, eager to earn his irritation, "Planning to finally thank me?"

"Yes."

These new, uncustomary answers were setting her off-balance, altering what had been days' long tension to replace it with uneasy familiarity. "Then get to it, you ungrateful dick."

Something was going on behind the mask, and not the metal one strapped to his face. "You saved my life."

"I did."

"You dragged me up a mountain."

"That too," River confirmed.

"And treated my wounds, my illness. You fed me."

"You brought in wood. You cooked. You've carried your reasonable share of the burden."

"You won't last in this world, River."

And suddenly it all seemed far more funny than supernatural. She glowed, her smile one-hundred percent genuine. "Between the two of us, Prince Charming, you are the one who is hopelessly doomed. But there is something about you, so I'm going to give you a hint." The shine of obsidian eyes dimmed; the smile wavered. "There's a lot more to the world than what you know. Seek things that make you uncomfortable, that challenge you, and you'll see I'm right."

All through her lesson Bane's eyes had grown fiercer. She was the one who needed to learn. "You need to put a lock on your door. Men are dangerous!"

Something else was going on. River cocked her head, asking, "What of women?"

"There is no other woman I know more dangerous to me than you."

"Because I have seen under your stupid mask…" She shook her head, disappointed but unsure why. River stood, went to the well-worn maps and guides, pulling them from the shelf to throw at the titan's feet. "Leave. Get out. The storm is breaking." She pulled blankets from the sofa, tribal blankets her grandmother had woven. "Wrap in these and go."

"Have you no compass?"

Stalking toward another shelf, River dug through some accumulated junk. An instant later she pitched black plastic toward her guest. He caught it so fast, so flawlessly, she faltered. The way he stared, how he didn't get angry, only inspired more rage. Reaching into a carved wooden box, she pulled out a wad of small bills and threw those at his feet, tossing it in a way the bastard could not catch it with all his skills for quickness; could not do anything but watch currency scatter and flutter down.

River went nearer the door, pulling on her jacket, grabbing her pack and rifle, and reaching for snow shoes.

"It is painfully obvious you flee this dwelling every time you grow uneasy. 'Seek things that make you uncomfortable, that challenge you, and you'll see I'm right.'"

"Throwing my words in my face? That's the best you got? Come on, Stranger, I prefer your ignorant ravings and silly assumptions." She didn't even look to see what his response might be. The door shut, River explaining herself through the wood for reasons she couldn't quite grasp, "I'm out of fresh meat and we're not the only animals on this mountain that have been trapped in their dens, eager for a break in the weather."

When she returned, having used up all the short daylight hours gathering more rabbits than one woman could eat, she was hardly through the door before Bane was on her. The rifle was ripped away, slid out of reach, her snow laden jacket pulled off flailing limbs so quick she hardly knew what hit her. Hand to her throat, he pressed her back against the shutting door, his arm long enough River could do little more than hiss and thrash, unable to reach the man.

Bane growled, "Do you understand now?" He wasn't hurting her, not really, but there was no way she could move from his control. He seemed so level, so unaffected by the fact he had her life in his hands. "Men are dangerous. Do not pull them from lakes."

Swallowing under the constriction, River tried not to let her eyes water. "I get it. You wanted to die. Because you're terrified, and you're in pain."

His voice almost broke. Not in tears, or in pain, but in utter puzzlement. "Why do you refuse to learn?"

River countered, nasty, "Why are you still here? You think I don't know that you've studied the trail guides, my maps? I spent hours in a bathroom colder than a witch's tit so you could find your way. LEAVE!"

Bane dragged her to the fire, ignoring the dead rabbits she dropped; ignored that she was practically chewing on his wrist. Atop the rug, he forced her down, pinning her hips and watching until she grasped what was coming.

Patting his chest, trying to signal he was too close, River stammered, "Just cook the rabbit."

Bane shifted his knee to settle it between the woman's legs, so he might continue to look down at her. She seemed uncomfortable. Her positioning was fixed with one sharp yank on her thigh, a tug that brought her prostrated fully underneath where he crouched.

In the last days, the man had hardly touched her, had always kept an almost laughable distance, and now he was yanking her around. River was not happy. "You're making me very nervous..."

"Why? Is this not the way the woman was handled in that book?" He'd read the entirety of that terrible book while she'd slept.

Oh dear god, he was actually teasing her... "It's just a book."

The mask wheezed, "You claimed that was the desire of lonely women."

Her brows drew down, offense obvious in her voice. "I said no such thing, and I am not a lonely woman!"

Agitated, Bane growled, "If the book was incorrect then tell me the custom for initiating."

"Initiating?" River repeated the word slowly, seeing the man was staring at her mouth again. "You're holding me down."

Colorless eyes snapped up, met hers, and were far too intimidating. "I would not force you."

Then why had he dragged her to the fire? "You forced me here."

What were the proper words when propositioning a female? "I see no more point in playing games when you know I want to touch you and you want to be touched."

He was so blunt, even River was not sure what to say.

"And I want to see your body," Bane added, carefully noting the minutia of her reactions so he might continue in the correct direction. "I want to feel your mouth again. When you are naked, and I am hard, I want to fuck you."

He began lifting the hem of her sweater, his hand sliding quickly until her breasts popped free. She gaped at the way the stranger looked at them – as if he wanted to eat her. Considering their positions, she was pretty certain he did.

Bane did as he claimed, and just looked, tentative fingers tracing over something soft and unknown - tawny skin and dark areolas, nipples that puffed under his view. The tubes of his mask caught on one when he leaned in to smell, and River made a noise.

As if he was going to feast, he lined her up, his free hand working the latch of his mask. One deep breath of drugs and he pulled it down, pulling her closer to his mouth. Warm lips skimmed her nipple so lightly, it was almost as if he were not there, like being kissed by a ghost, until he chose to latch on, to suck as much of her flesh into his mouth as he could.

His brashness, the way his knee pressed right against her mound - unsure what the hell was wrong with her - River rolled her hips for more.

The mask had to come back, Bane needed to breathe, and the cage he'd earned in his love for Talia locked back in place. But he was far from done. River didn't squeak or shy when he gripped that swollen breast, when he pinched the nipple to see if it might grow more flushed. The woman let out a pant, one clever shiver, and he found he wanted to make her do it again.

Pale eyes darted up to a face he'd memorized, only to find River's lips parted, her cheeks flushed in an all new expression. "You enjoy this?"

Breathless, she spoke nonsense, "If I say yes, it will only prove that I have lost my mind."

That was confirmation enough. "You will spread your legs for me."

A pink tongue darted out to wet her lips as Bane begun tugging the bunched sweater fully over her head.

Raking the mask over her to hear more of that mewl, feeling himself swell large in his pants; he wanted to show his girth to her, so she might know she'd inspired such a reaction. He wanted to put it in her, and do what males were designed to do. Most of all he wanted her to reciprocate. "Touch me."

"Where?"

Would she dare to tease? "Everywhere."

Palms settled right at his collar bones, and smoothed lower, fisting the fabric of his thermal to pull it up as he'd done to her. Bane helped her, shedding it quickly. His body was grand, he was the largest in the League - the woman should see, as she'd seen when she gaped at him from the door.

Talia had often complimented his physique, River would too.

But she remained silent, that nervous tongue darting out again at the view of so much mass. Bane was on the border of ordering her regard, but the woman leaned forward, and she flicked her tongue in the soft hollow of his throat.

Nothing had ever felt so moving.

He was the one panting, reaching to take the rest of her clothes and stripping her naked, so fast fabric tore.

"Careful." River was nervous, and one word seemed to mellow her would-be paramour.

Bane stripped himself far more cautiously, pressed her legs apart, and answered her apprehension. She'd hardly had more than a glimpse of what bobbed, kissing her opening. The tentative strokes were gone; instead he rose up over her, beholding where he longed to push forth, just to see what she looked like where she quivered and was expectant of him.

There was no silly slapping of her pussy with his girth, no spitting on his hand as others had done before him - things, River was certain, some third-rate seventies porn had glamorized and every man who'd seen it since thought was some spectacular bedroom move. No, he was just braced, tense, with a look in his eye as his cock nested. It turned her on... because that look was hers and had never belonged to another.

But she had to warn him, "I don't... protection—"

Bane cut her off, head racing up to glare. "There is nothing that could protect you from me."

Chuckling at his inability to grasp that she referred to a condom, River found her mouth silenced when he surged full inside and stole her breath. All laughter forgotten, her hole spasmed when a flurry of neglected internal muscles shut her up. A throat noise, her heart racing - she felt so full. He held her there, gauging the slippery grip for himself, soaking in the woman's reaction to him.

"Do I feel good inside you?"

Fuck, he felt like something else entirely. Mute, River just nodded and breathed out a soft moan, the nearest thing she could create in verbal affirmative. As he flexed to withdraw she made her tongue form words, "You need to take it slow... it's been awhile for me."

"I move at the pace I choose."

The Neanderthal growl and man's hoarse demand should not have made her cream around his dick... but it did. She was dripping for him, feeling it seep when he pulled out so slow it was deliberate - a reminder that no matter the tempo, he was in charge, she was to follow, and all would be satisfied should she obey.

She almost came at the thought... more than willing to admit she might have been a little fucked up in the head.

His second penetration mirrored the withdrawal; slow - infinitely slow - as if the man wanted to feel each separate nerve of his cock learning a cunt... so he might imprint it onto his person. It would have been clinical had his eyes not widened in awe. Bane fucking loved it just as much, if not more, than she did.

Raising her legs to hook at his back brought a growl of warning from the man hovering over her, until he felt the angle and squeeze, recognizing her heels dug into his glutes because her body craved more. He drew it out, three more slow plunges, grinding in when she willingly sucked him fully inside her belly.

The noises he could inspire when he did that... Bane wanted to know just what other response he could create. It became a game. Hard, forceful thrusts made him groan and her squirm. Steady pacing, teasing at her mound with his pelvis and her head rolled back, River's loud moans making his balls clench.

Under him, being his experiment, River found herself more than happy to let him play... relieved he didn't just hump away like most virgins overexcited by the opportunity to nut-off for the first time in actual lady parts. Her stranger was the pirate, she the captive damsel... he didn't even need to outline the fantasy in words; it was in the grip of his hands that already seemed to know her, that had memorized from those few strokes he'd offered before ripping off her clothes.

He controlled to the point of obsession, tilting her hips, thumbing her clit until she squealed, spreading her wider when the mood hit so he might watch. All obedience was rewarded and the first time she came, twitching and shuddering at his manipulation of nerve endings, he took in her every reaction and sought to outdo them.

It was unnatural the control he had over his own body. His sack was already high and tight, it had to ache from need of release, but he was mesmerized in the act. She took an advantage, dug in her nails into an ass most women would die to feel clenched pleasuring them and reared up, using the foul mouth he claimed to hate to trill out a list of dirty talk that would make an old perv blush. The second she told him to, "fuck that needy pussy," he came, jerking, trying to get as deep as possible while moaning like a ten dollar whore.

Never had she had it so good or been in so much trouble with the man who wasn't quite done spilling. He looked like he could strangle her, like he wanted to fuck her again, like she might have been the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

Her hand skimmed over his stubble of brown hair, wiping the sweat away as she grinned, owning up to her naughtiness in one wicked leer.

Punishment was coming for unsettling his plan. Panting, he threatened, "Again. We will go again. Every way."

She wasn't off the hook and Bane still had much he wanted to experience. After he prepared the rabbit, after he'd fed her to shore up her strength, he kneeled over her chest and hung his cock near her mouth, quieting her complaints at being shoved down... or so he thought... by thrusting between pretty lips. River hummed around him, made obnoxious sucking noises; gagged when she let him go too deep... and he found the sounds better than the silence he thought he wanted. He supported her skull, pleasure unmasked in his eyes, fisting a handful of braid each time her vulgar tongue traced the veins in his cock or flittered across the slit where he leaked.

He came in that warm velvet mouth. With hollowed cheeks, she drank him up like a good girl, batting her eyelashes in a way that felt far dirtier than her previous vulgar speech.

* * *

"You must angle the blade away from your body, foolish woman, or it will slip and you will cut yourself."

Wrapped in only a blanket, sitting beside her guest, River snapped, "Shut your mouth and pay attention. This is called a pare cut, so long as you go with the grain and your knife is sharp, chances of it skipping are slim. Just go slow."

Bane watched her shave another curl off the wood, the woman repeating the process until the lump in her hand turned smooth. Copying her technique he found creating curves in his block difficult. Where hers grew soft, useful, he'd carved a shiv. Seeing her eyes dart to his work, the minute cock in her brow, and the silent shake of her shoulders made it clear she was laughing at him.

He didn't like it.

River saw the look in his eye. "Don't be so touchy." A fresh piece of basswood was shoved at him, River snagging the ruined stick from his fingers to set aside. "It takes practice."

In the time it took her to carve a spoon he'd made another shiv... "This seems a waste of your resources."

River shrugged. "Just keep carving your little pointy sticks. I can use them in my traps."

"How do you make these traps?"

She seemed to ponder. "How are you at tying knots?"

"Show me these knots."

Black eyes stared dead into his, the woman not teasing, "Do you know how to make a noose?"

"Yes." Out of just about anything; human intestines were especially effective.

She moved from her seat beside him on the couch to dig through a cupboard near the kitchen, coming back with a bundle of twine and some wire. Her fingers flew over the string to create the basic knots to display. "The noose changes depending on the size of prey you're trying to catch. Squirrels are easy. An overhand knot, a simple noose, a sapling, and some bait. Unfortunately, if their necks don't break their deaths are unpleasant... they just hang until they croak. That's why I go for rabbits." She gestured toward his pointed sticks. "The trap is more complex, but a sharp point ends it pretty quick."

The woman's words were absolutely ridiculous, causing Bane to enlighten her, "How they die doesn't matter, so long as you can eat them and assure your survival."

"Wrong." Her lips thinned, her eyes too.

Bane understood her lack of experience. "You have never starved."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you starving now? No. You're not... so you have the luxury of not being a total asshole to nature. Now stop interrupting and watch my fingers." She made three types of easy knots, unmade them, and made them again.

When the masked man seemed to have a skill in recreating what he saw, she tried more complicated creations, looping, tucking, and challenging the string.

"You skipped a step."

She hesitated. "What?"

"Here." Bane reached over and pointed to where her fingers were tangled incorrectly, hooking the loose bit with his finger to tuck through her mess.

After the knot was fixed he kept going, weaving something complicated around her slack fingers until she laughed. "Is that a human snare?" Seeing as all her fingers were steepled and bound it could have been.

Bane grunted, "Pull your hands apart."

When she did the strangeness of the creation tightened itself but let her go, until there was something that looked almost like lace in her hands. River lifted it, turning it this way and that to see the little pattern. "How did you do that?"

That little game had always amused Talia when she was small, leaving the girl something to play with just as River was playing with the work. "The first knot I learned how to make was a noose. The prey I caught was strung up to die slowly... so it would keep other predators away. In those situations, I would not have ended their lives quickly with a knife to the chest."

He was talking about people, River going ashen. "Predators eat trapped animals, they don't avoid them."

"Where I was born, in times of famine eating one another was more common than you might imagine."

What the fuck was she supposed to say when someone looked at you like that? "What do people taste like?"

"Better than your cooking."

Coughing a nervous laugh, River edged away from the shifting male.

"I'm not sure if I say these things to frighten you, woman who has no lock on her house, or if I say them because they have not been spoken aloud before." And they hadn't been; not even with Talia.

He had her awkwardly bent back against the armrest, River muttering, "Whenever you seem to relax you mess up the vibe ... and crazy shit comes out of your mouth. You can't handle the real world. You're scared of what's outside your very creepy bubble."

Bane took the knives and cast them aside, reaching to unfold the scratchy blanket over his next meal's breasts. He had already taken her three times, until she cried for mercy and a nap. When the female had fallen asleep curled around him, wanting physical contact for reasons outside of sexual pleasure, it had been... different.

Her skin felt nothing like his, she hardly had a scar, and he got to touch her as she napped, Bane most content when he kneaded her rear or weighed a breast. He even took her hair from the braids, a thing she woke to find and blushed at when he wanted to play with all that kinked length.

Now he had that hair in his fist, all gathered up so he might turn her, brace her over the arm of the sofa, where she trembled.

She shook, and he knew it was not from fear, but anticipation.

He made her wait while he scratched a nail over the phoenix's outline, while he gripped just a little too hard the flesh of her ass, while he reached around and kneaded hanging breasts until she rubbed her scented, slippery woman parts against him.

Bane wanted to let go - to grab and use her, setting aside caution for his strength.

Ramming in with no warning, hearing her grunt, he yanked harder on that hair. Violent, he took her from behind, pretending he didn't like it when she stared over her shoulder, her jaw agape and moaning for him. Finding the tattoo over her back come alive with his jerking thrusts, scoring it with his fingers, he knew the image was no different than her submission to him.

There were no two tattoos in the world like the one River wore, just as there would never be another sexual moment that might compare to the one they shared, better or worse. It was singular. When his hips surged to rock her forward, when she fought the pull on her hair, he speared her all over again until Bane felt her squeeze tight about his cock... and he fucked even harder. River was forced past release, almost fighting him so her orgasm might end. He held her lust-drugged eyes, he held her hip so she had to take him all... and there was nothing else in that moment. Bane called her name as he came, as he gushed into a place already saturated with his mark. Falling atop her, unconcerned she was crushed or that she might not like the arm he circled tightly around her middle. Panting against her neck he found rest.

When she woke and he was gone there was no surprise ... or disappointment. For a moment he'd been afraid, and so had she. He had a part to play- the stranger. She had a part- the recluse. There wasn't going to be a fairytale bullshit story; she didn't want it, he didn't want it. They both just wanted to survive.

Survival was lonely work.

His smell lingered after him. River straightening a room that lacked the precious woven blankets she'd extended in temper, a spare compass, two rabbits, all the thrown money… and the brown book she'd last been reading to him.

Going outside, she found he'd also dug out and stolen her snowmobile. She was trapped.

It was two months before she could make the hike down the mountain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Gotham: 10 years later**

"That's what I said, officer," River was doing her best to curb the more creative language the situation deserved. Looking at her palms, at the abrasions a slender Gotham beat cop swabbed with a stinging alcohol wipe, she repeated, "I was walking down the street and some asshole grabbed my purse. Said asshole was my height, in jeans and a Gotham Rogues jacket - a pale, scrawny white guy. Brown eyes."

Officer Ross nodded, glancing down to where torn stockings bared the woman's bloody knees. "When a mugger grabs your purse and threatens you with a knife, Ms. Blackwell, don't fight him for it. You're lucky he didn't do more than shove you down."

This was Grand Avenue - lined with five star restaurants, pricey boutiques, and strolling couples - not some hood. "I thought this city was supposed to be safe now! We're in a nice area... there are people everywhere." Her eyes looked over the distant rubberneckers, River shouting judgment right at the crowd gathering across the street, "People who watched that asshole rob me and did nothing!"

"Would you like to sit down?"

No, she didn't want to sit down; she wanted to kick that mugger's ass. "The airline lost my luggage when I arrived this morning. I'm wearing a borrowed suit - A suit lent to me by the same person who lent me that purse!"

Ross gestured for her to lean against the squad car so he might swab her scabbing knees. Feeling utterly awkward with one cop putting a Band-Aid on her leg and another taking notes while more people gawked, River frowned.

"What kind of purse was it?"

"Fuck if I know. A red one?" Arms folded under her breasts, She tried to ignore the growing crowd. "It was purse shaped and didn't have a strap. Just handles. If it had had a strap, that dick would never have wrestled it away from me."

Officer Ross followed protocol, speaking moderately to the shaken woman, "I know this has been jarring—."

The look she gave the cop when she cut him off could have melted ice, "Jarring is being charged by a grizzly bear. _This_ has been maddening!"

"I know you're a long way from home, Ma'am," The other one, Ross's partner, looked up from his notepad. "Would you like us to give you a ride back to wherever you're staying?"

His badge read _Blake_. Looking at the streetlight shine off the brass, River couldn't help but think of how much he looked like a character she'd written long ago. That figment of her imagination had been a chump...

Sighing, feeling like an absolute ass, she nodded. "I would appreciate it."

It wasn't her first time in the back of a squad car, but it was the first time she wasn't handcuffed and in a considerable amount of trouble. Not that River had ever given two fucks back then. But renegade teenagers grow up, and fortunately for her, felonies committed before the age of eighteen could be magically expunged once the state deemed one old enough to vote.

Otherwise those two cops might not have been so friendly.

And they had been friendly, even when she'd been raving like a loon.

Ignoring the way her palms stung, River smoothed her hair, catching Officer Ross's eyes in the rearview. She felt it needed to be said. "I'm sorry. You were nice... and I wasn't."

A fleeting smirk hit Ross's brown eyes when he looked back to the road. "Gotham isn't Alaska, Ms. Blackwell. There are dangerous people here, and walking alone anywhere in the city at night is not a good idea."

Being separated from the situation had calmed her tempter enough that even River had to admit clinging to her bag when a mugger brandished a knife had been incredibly stupid. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Ma'am, be careful. And don't think the worst of us. We're not all bad."

She wanted to laugh, and just enough of a sarcastic snort came out to be incredibly unladylike. "If you had any idea of the kinds of people I am forced to stomach when I come here, you might just think a bit different."

There was no denying her suit was high end - not that the cops knew designers any better than River did. But both cops did comprehend that heels with red soles were ridiculously expensive.

Ross looked at her in the mirror again, "If you don't mind my asking, why are you visiting Gotham?

Because she legally had to. "It's a caveat to my contract with Gotham Press."

"You're a writer?" Ross smirked again. "What kind of books?"

If the last two years had anything to say about it, there was only one answer River could give. "The kind no one reads."

* * *

It had been a bad day before the mugging. With scabbed knees and abraded palms, she looked how she felt - trampled. A shower helped, setting down to write offered a suitable distraction, but when morning came, River knew she was going to have to face the music.

It was generally frowned upon to call the president of your publishing house a cunt to his face. And it was especially grossière when that term was hissed in the middle of a fancy restaurant.

Her agent, Joan, was going to be pissed.

Considering the cool blonde could be downright frightening when angry, the last thing River wanted to admit was that she'd also lost the flashy bag the doyenne had pushed on her.

Joan Stix was a goddamn legend in the literary community, whereas Amelia Blackwell, _River_, was an outsider with no social graces, a mouth, and recent low sales. Mostly, she did what Joan told her to do, because she trusted the woman. Carry an expensive purse, _fine_. Wear an uncomfortable suit, _done_. Have a nice dinner with the new president of the company that has published every single one of her books, _certainly_.

But unlike his father, the new Mr. VanChamp, was not a dynamo. He was a pig faced dipshit who felt more than comfortable listing her shortcomings before gripping her thigh under the table.

Okay, so her best-selling golden days were gone, there were no ass-kissing hangers-on clamoring for a glimpse of the illusive wunderkind, and she'd potentially just ruined her chances of signing further book deals with the mecca of all publishing houses.

But fuck Patrick VanChamp.

Sure, she'd fly into Gotham, smile, shake hands, and do what she was contractually bound to do, but she would not let one sniveling little rich boy who took over daddy's job, threaten her.

A knock came to her door.

Steeling herself, River stood, adjusted her borrowed bathrobe, and opened the door to her guest suite.

There stood Joan in all her glory.

"Have you talked to Patrick?"

A smirk, the dangerous kind, came to lips still stained from the previous night's red lacquer. Joan spoke as if she knew everything, "I heard what happened through other means."

Still angry and terrible at regret, River hardened. "He had it coming."

"Oh, I don't doubt it. Patrick is nothing like his father, god rest him. But you endangered your chance at getting _Devil's Dichotomy_ published by publicly embarrassing a man who could ruin you. So this is what you're going to do." Joan's iced blonde bob hung like glass, so smooth only the magic of chemicals could have created hair that perfect. "You are going to go to sleep because I can tell you've been up all night and you look like shit. And when I come to wake you, you're going to put on whatever dress I bring you, and you are going to a charity event where you will openly kiss the spoiled prick's ass."

Brushing tangled hair off her face, River came clean with the other little issue. "Now don't be mad."

Blue eyes rolled to the heavens, "Jesus Christ. What else?"

"After dinner, I was mugged. I lost your nice purse."

The frustration in her mentor drained away, Joan uncustomarily at a loss for a sharp retort. "What? What happened? Are you okay? Why didn't you call me?"

"I'll buy you a new one."

"That was a custom Hermes Berkin. You can't buy a new one. But that doesn't matter." Even with Botox, practiced control, and over a decade of experience with River's eccentricities, Joan looked openly upset. "You should have called me."

Trying to smooth over obvious hurt feelings, River explained, "Your number was in my cellphone... in your purse."

Nope, Joan was not falling for that for an instant. "Lester could have rang."

River didn't much like _The_ _North Point's_ doorman. "You were out with Mr. Daggett. I didn't want to interrupt your date with bad news."

Waving it off, Joan stepped into her guest room. "John could have waited, Amelia. I'm your friend; you should have let me be there for you."

And there it was, guilt bubbling up under exhaustion and lingering frustration. Pushing her hair behind her ear, River said, "I am really sorry about your purse."

Shaking her head, Joan sighed. "It's just a purse. It was even insured. Why on earth do you think I would care about a handbag over your welfare?"

"Because, I am an asshole."

Joan could not help but smirk, and that time it was in amusement. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

Joan had been her mentor for a long time, and there was no doubt that River's actions had put them both in a bad situation. "I don't care what anyone else thinks, Joan. You know that. But I'm sorry I let you down."

* * *

Where Joan Stix embraced elegance and had an air of refinement in her costume, River looked increasingly uncomfortable.

The_ dress_ Joan had mentioned was not a dress at all. It was a gown. It was tight. And it was very, very red. Thankfully a great deal of what would have been displayed was covered in sheets of dark hair, and even a portion of her face was concealed by a mask, that, unfortunately, did not fully hide her disgusted expression.

Sipping sparkling water, River did her best to keep a plastic smile on her face amidst the party. It could have been worse - most people paid little or no attention to her. Heavens knew anonymity was preferable to small talk with the literary snobs Joan associated with. In fact, associating with those types of people so she would not have to was precisely why River paid Joan such a high percentage of her sales.

They used to try to talk to her, to act as if she were something special. Once upon a time, Amelia Blackwell had been special, Number One according to Gotham Times at only nineteen. Now that spotlight belonged to Carlos Dreary, action writer extraordinaire.

His books were _okay_... but by the way critics raved, River was certain so much praise was lavished because unlike her, Carlos played the game. He was handsome, all smiles, and didn't find large crowds of morons nausea inducing.

Even she kinda liked him.

"How did you get out of book tours all these years?"

Dressed in a tux, with a cloth mask tied over his eyes, River could not help but tease, "You look like the Lone Ranger."

Mr. Dreary had white teeth, bleached and perfectly straight, all on display as he laughed. "Amelia, you don't even want to know what you look like."

"This is my penitence-"

Carlos interrupted, whispering, "For calling Patrick VanChamp a cunt, I know. Everybody knows."

Curling her lip and swallowing another big gulp of sparkling water, River shrugged.

"So, how did you do it? How did you convince his old man to market your work without committing to all the publicity?"

It was not really flattering to admit, "Old VanChamp only needed to meet me once."

You would have thought she'd said the wittiest thing on the planet the way Carlos laughed. It was moments like that, she wondered if he was only talking to her so he might mock her later, entertaining the very people keeping their distance from her now.

"You play the eccentric angle very well."

Jesus, she'd heard that one before. "I'm not eccentric because I don't like Gotham or want to sleaze around with snobs. How do you even get any work done when you socialize every night?"

"There's that infamous charming way you put things, indirectly calling me sleazy and a snob without really saying it."

Grinning, more than willing to play with him, River outright said, "You are a snob."

Shrugging, Carlos took a step closer to speak in hushed tones, "It's not so bad you know. Sleep with Patrick once and this should all be swept under the rug."

Choking on her drink, River cringed. "You have got to be joking. I would rather have sex with John Wayne Gacy, Hitler standing in the sidelines waiting to tag team."

Now Carlos looked confused, "If you think there is any other way of getting out of it, the infamous Joan is setting you up for disappointment. Why do you think she crammed you in that dress and is parading you around? You're ruined, so get ready to kneel and beg for it."

The temptation to pour her drink over the cocky bastard's head was so great, River had to take a step back. "Crow all you like, Mr. Dreary. We both know blowing your critics is only going to get your cookie-cutter stories sold for so long. You're a hack in a fancy suit. So go hack it over there, or go fuck yourself. Either way, you'll never have the talent to last when the next pretty face with a hint of talent slithers into the room."

"You bitch."

Smirking meanly, River agreed, "A bitch with seven best-sellers that didn't require me _getting on my knees_ and sucking critic cock..."

As Carlos stalked off, a waiter approached, tray laden with champagne. "Would you like a drink, Madam?"

Eyeing bubbles dance up crystal flutes, River sighed, "Would it be any trouble to get another glass of water?"

Straight-faced, professional, the man answered, "No trouble at all."

Before all the angry red had drained from her face, the waiter returned, offering what she'd requested. It seemed she was already falling in the world; what had been Perrier was downgraded to room temperature tap water. River didn't even notice, too busy watching Carlos set a group to laughing, three or four of his friends glancing at her as the author gestured and entertained.

"There you are." Joan's lilting voice was unmistakable.

Turning, trying her best to smile like she was supposed to, River said, "Yes. Hello."

There was a woman with her friend, a very beautiful woman dressed in blue who smiled gently and watched carefully. Joan offered introductions, "This is your hostess, Amelia, Miss Miranda Tate."

Offering her hand, and immediately embarrassed when the brunette noticed her scraped palm, River offered, "It's a lovely party. Thank you for including me."

Miranda shook her hand, seemingly unconcerned by the scabs, and acted pleased. "I should be thanking you. Your contribution to our cause will go a long way for Gotham."

Of course... money was the best way to have people treat you well in the glittering, hellhole metropolis. River agreed, "Gotham could use the help, I'd say."

Miranda infinitesimally cocked a brow and took on a tone of interest. "In what ways?"

Joan spoke up before anything _clever _could come out of River's mouth, "My guess is that Amelia would say street crime. The poor dear had a run in with a mugger last night."

The story was relayed by the statuesque blonde, bearing very little in common with what really happened. All the while River kept her mouth shut, blinking, and sipping her water.

Tale finished, Miranda mentioned, "Your estimation of our great city must have been shaken."

Smiling, River teased, "Lowering my opinion of Gotham really wasn't possible."

Miss Tate caught the jibe. "Because it was already scraping bottom..." Where she should have been insulted, where anyone would have been, Miranda only smirked as if they shared a secret. "Am I to apologize on behalf of our great city?"

"I'm not sure it's the city's fault," River conceded. "I don't belong here."

"I would say so." What River had thought was playful banter, seemed thrown, and Miranda behaved just like everyone else River had met at the party – like a pretentious bitch. "You should leave Gotham and go back to wherever it was you came from. As soon as possible."

* * *

"Are you out of your mind?" River knew her best quality was certainly not her ability to control her temper, but by god, she had never been angrier with Joan. They were back at Joan's penthouse, River staring down someone she suddenly felt she didn't know in the slightest. "You actually think I would sleep with that man to further my career?"

Waving it off, Joan sighed, "You're acting like a child. Your last book flopped. The critics hated it. Your sales were abysmal."

All true, but integrity to one's vision counted, right? "I liked it. I liked _Hortus_."

"Now you just sound stupid, and you are not stupid, Amelia." Painted lips moved into a straight line, Joan stepping nearer. "You could have had a leg to stand on had you put the effort into aggrandizing yourself... had you moved in fashionable circles and not been so standoffish. But you wanted an unconventional avenue, so you could live like a hermit and avoid things you didn't like. So don't tell me that after all these years I have not banged into your skull what went along with settling for _the road less traveled_."

How dare she drag the beauty of Robert Frost's words into a conversation so demeaning. "I didn't realize that path was paved in prostitution, Joan!"

"One phone call and Patrick could have you blacklisted from the top five publishing houses. Even the small presses would not dare touch you, not for years... if ever." The woman took a breath, organized her face, and coerced, "Consider your obligations, your dreams for the future, and wake up to the fact that this is the real world and there are consequences here."

When she'd finally bumped into Patrick VanChamp at that horrible Masquerade, he'd ran his beady eyes over her cleavage and leered. He, like everyone else, anticipated that she'd practically pull his cock out there and beg him to come all over her face. One look at Joan's watching nearby, at her nudging chin and pointed eyes, and River had stormed out. "Would you do it?"

"In a heartbeat."

Screwing up her face, River scorned, "Is that why you're dating John Daggett?"

Raising her chin, Joan confirmed, "He is a very powerful man; it's a mutually beneficial arrangement on both sides."

River had only met the businessman twice. Neither time had she liked him - but who Joan loved was none of her business - yet to hear what the older woman was saying made her skin crawl. "And what's to stop Patrick from expecting me to bend over and take it every time I come to the city?"

"If you're lucky someone else will have his attention. If you're not..."

"I don't even know where to begin." River was beyond the pale, too furious to register how quickly her world was crashing in around her. "No. That's not true. I know exactly where to begin. You're fired."

Joan immediately chuckled. "You really think you stand a chance of making it in Gotham without me?"

"No."

"Exactly."

"I have admired you and respected you my entire adult life." Angry tears welled, River shaking she was so very mad. "There was a time I looked up to you as if you were my mother, and never would I have imagined that one day you would sink so low." The very fact River used no profanity, that her words flowed eloquent and meaningful, spoke volumes.

"Let me remind you, Amelia, that you have no means of leaving Gotham, or this apartment, with your credit cards cancelled and your ID missing. You can't book a hotel room or even board a plane."

"I'm a resourceful woman."

Joan gestured toward the door. "Then good luck out there."

River walked past her old friend, right down the hallway to the guest suite, cooing, "And resourceful women apparently know better than to walk the Gotham streets alone at night. Feel free to call the cops if you don't like me squatting while I wait for my new credit cards to be delivered. I'm sure your neighbors would love to have more gossip about the whore who lives in the penthouse."

The door slammed, River hearing Joan raise her voice. "Think it through, Amelia!"

* * *

**Doyenne:**** a woman who has a lot of experience in or knowledge about a particular profession, subject, etc.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Long time no see, friends! Many of you know that I now write professionally (though, considering this chapter was written this morning and has not been beta read, it might not seem that way) and writing fanfiction for fun has taken a backseat. I found a little time between deadlines and missed River, so here is my latest offering of her shenanigans. I hope you enjoy it.**

**Chapter 7**

River sure as hell was not going to stop banging away on her laptop until a finished story was splashed on that screen. Anger did tend to bring out the best in her work. And considering how pissed she was, this story might just be the next Great American Novel.

Fuck Joan.

That would be the book's title.

Grinning, like a boss bitch, River cackled.

The women had not spoken in three days. Joan made no further effort toward communication; or maybe she had. River kept her door locked, and music blaring, unwilling to be distracted from work with something as mundane as the woman's knocks and demands she get out.

It didn't matter. River was done with it, with all of it.

There would be no more Gotham. No more pandering to delinquents. An Indie publishing house would pick her up; River had enough sway to make it work. Or she'd self-publish. Everything would be fine. Life was not over, it was just going to be very different.

Perhaps she should have dropped Gotham Press years ago...

Head in her hands, River closed bloodshot eyes.

Her initial boiling temper had evolved. She was past livid and far gone into the much more dangerous waters of wrath. Add to that the frustration of waiting on her credit cards, _cards the doorman continually swore had not been delivered_, River was ready to admit she didn't trust herself.

She needed to get home and far away from the temptation to do something supremely stupid.

She needed those fucking credit cards.

If River was not certain the _North Point's_ doorman was dumber than a box of rocks, she'd think he'd pocketed them himself. Then again, maybe he was dumb enough for that, and was already on a shopping spree for more bad aftershave and maybe some dick enhancement pills.

Food had not been on her mind, not when she had a jumbo box of crackers to snack on and water straight from the en suite tap. Personal hygiene had also been set aside for the sake of continuing her furious typing - and because moping was much more successful if one could smell one's armpits.

Sleep was the real problem. It eluded her. Every time she got up to pee, let alone lay back and closed her eyes, River found herself unbearably sad.

It was like mourning a death, and that only made her angrier. The Joan she knew and trusted had never existed. The woman who'd molded her career, who'd seen her through some truly dark times, was nothing but a whoremongering elitist.

So long as River was stuck there... waiting... she had to stay distracted. She had to write day and night; she had to wear herself out. That way sleep would come without her thoughts circling around regret... or ever present temptation to slip up.

After three days, the words began to run together on the screen. She was truly exhausted. Peeling herself from her chair, River stumbled to the shower, rinsed off acrid sweat and the salty crust left ignored on her lashes. She brushed her teeth and pulled on the tacky silk nightgown Joan had lent her that first night.

While walking toward the bed, the ground lurched, River almost brought flat on her ass. Earthquakes were nothing in Alaska, common and unexciting. In the state she was in, River didn't much care if the building wobbled and rolled. The continuing jolts, once she was wrapped in bedding, was actually quite soothing.

The sound of Joan shiny objects falling off their equally shiny shelves, River missed, music still blaring, and Gotham rocking her to sleep.

* * *

"This is all crap..."

Staring at the computer, at three days' worth of writing, River rolled her eyes. What had seemed like a magnum opus was drivel full of spelling errors and missing commas. There was a story in there, one that would need to be forcefully yanked from all the surrounding bleck she'd written. She supposed that was better than nothing.

But the damn file was incomplete and would not fully upload from her cloud drive.

Her laptop was clunky, but usually reliable, yet it refused to connect to the internet. It wasn't even showing an available connection. Maybe the old thing was finally dying - unless, of course, Joan had turned off her service. River would not put such a petty move past her.

River tried the phone to see if her cards had been delivered; it didn't work either. Staring at the receiver, seeing the after effects of yesterday's earthquake in all the fallen items and small bits of broken glass, River assumed the lines were down.

That would explain the internet.

Great...

Okay, fine. This was Gotham and the building she squatted in was full of pretentious boobs who'd demand the phone company make repairs immediately. She would just need to wait a little longer. In the meantime, she could eat real food, ignore the beautiful rack of wine built into the kitchen wall, and act like a fucking adult.

Calmer, feeling more in control, River ate fancy yogurt straight from container just as she would have at home. Still standing at the open fridge, River heard the front door bang open, and braced for Joan to storm in and start screeching.

But it wasn't Joan's voice that carried from the foyer. It was the mutterings of men and the sound of busting glass.

River's bare feet padded over the marble. "What the actual fuck?"

No one answered, but the sounds of footfalls grew nearer. This was a safe building, that boasted security twenty-four seven. You could not even access the penthouse without a code. But when River peaked around the corner, people were pouring in from the elevator, they were grabbing art from the walls, breaking priceless vases. _Laughing_.

Amidst the rabid group stood the doorman, his red livery bright against the faded jackets of the mob around him. He saw River poking her head out and marched right toward her.

"James, what's going on?"

There was no answer, only rough hands closing around her bare arms. The instant he seemed hell-bent on dragging her from the room, River fought on instinct. She slapped at his hands, clawed at his grip, but was already caught in such a way that the doorman needed only one good swing to knock her into a daze.

River's head hit the wall, the room spinning and all that yogurt threatening to come right up. There had been bar brawls, the reek of whiskey, in River's youth. She'd thrown punches and been downright nasty – blood, chipped teeth, pulled hair. River was an angry drunk; more often than not, she'd started the fights. Once upon a time, she'd liked being hit... but when another solid hook landed on her jaw, the old rush didn't dull the pain.

The world went cockeyed. Her ears began to ring so loud the men's shouts were nothing over the noise. Wobbling, the air was jarred from her gut, a shoulder met her belly and gravity shifted. It took a few moments for River to recognize she was not moving under her own steam. Instead she sagged like a sack of potatoes over a red shoulder, her hair like a curtain around her face.

Vaguely she registered that they were in the elevator, then the lobby, then outside, the bracing cold jarred her until vision began to clear. Everywhere she heard screams, pleading, the crack of breaking things, cruel merriment. Through her tangles, she couldn't see, and that made it all the more terrifying.

It was hard to breath with that shoulder in her gut. She needed to be on her feet, to fight, because something terrible was coming. Rearing up she jammed her elbows into the doorman's spine. She reached back to scratch at his eyes, overshot, and felt the meat of her hand caught between his teeth.

He bit down so hard River felt the skin pulp like it was caught in a bear trap. Screaming, fighting all the harder, she twisted and squirmed until he dropped her on the cold pavement. It didn't seem to bother him none to kick his hostage, or drag her by the hair.

A car was burning to her right, an old man being beaten bloody to her left, and no matter how she tried to get her legs under her, she couldn't. The thin silk of her borrowed nightgown was tearing; there was blood on her legs from abrasions, red smears left on the sidewalk to trail behind her.

They were passing an ornamental tree, one the city had planted and surrounded with a scalloped brick edging and vivid pansies fitting such a grand avenue. River reached for that brick, releasing the hand that held her hair, and dragged a piece with her.

The second it was in her hand she swung it back and mashed his wrist.

He dropped her and she spun. Adrenalin making her heart race and vision oddly sharp, River raised her weapon and brought it right down on her tormentor's head, again and again, even after he'd fallen and stopped twitching.

The North Point's Doorman lay there, his skull inverted and faceless. River dropped the brick, too busy gaping at the corpse to register the crowd that gathered around her. "I think I killed him..."

Someone big, far more lumbering that the doorman, growled, "I'm taking her to city hall."

Yes. That's where she needed to go. To city hall, to the police, where she could explain that she'd been attacked. That it was self-defense. River didn't fight when an arm came around her middle, she just followed, leaning her weight on the stranger and cradling a hand to her bleeding lip.

By the time she realized sanctuary did not wait ahead, it was too late. There were armed soldiers, odd looking tanks, surrounding the city's epicenter. It looked like an eastern European warzone. She was handed off to a man in camo, River hearing the one who'd dragged her there accuse, "This one killed the man who was bringing her in."

Covered in blood splatter, teeth chattering in the cold, River watched other frightened people be forcibly dragged up the steps. "What's going on?"

Eyes met hers, cold eyes in a weather roughened face. The soldier aiming his rifle at her skull grinned. "Justice."

* * *

The taste of granola was familiar, the oats, the sweetness. River chewed and chewed, sipping water, pretending her legs didn't sting or that one eye was swollen shut. Compared to what was around her, she wasn't hurt so bad.

There was a woman mewing, the arm she cradled to her chest obviously broken. The girl been left like that for a day. No medic had been sent to the crowded anteroom stuffed full of _prisoners_. Another old man River was pretty certain was already dead, his heart having given out or some unseen injury claiming his life. Like the woman who needed an x-ray and a doctor, the surrounding guard ignored him.

For ten hours she'd heard whispers, desperate for information she'd learned all she could. The bridges had been destroyed. There was no way on or off the island, and if anyone tried a bomb was going to fry them all. All because someone named Bane had come to free Gotham from _them_. Every prisoner in that chamber was of certain means, and they were being called forth one by one to be dragged into a room full of shouting and cheers.

Those who left were not brought back.

At gunpoint, River had given the man who'd dumped her in the room her name, then she'd spit on his boots. He'd only found it amusing. There had been no retaliation; in fact, that same man had handed out rations every few hours, even to her.

It was like she was nothing, everyone huddling on that floor, was nothing. The soldiers looked right through them.

No one had tried to escape, not after one man made a run for it and the bark of automatic rifles heralded the bullets that tore the fool apart. He too was left, his blood drying on the steps, as a warning.

It would be her turn soon. River had kept track of the line. Who showed up, when they were taken in for _judgment_. She'd already killed a man that day, and River had no doubt about what happened in that room full of barking animals. She was going to be killed, and if that's how it was going to end, she was going to go out snarling back at death.

"Amelia Blackwell."

Showtime. The guard's didn't have to pry her from the hands of loved ones; they didn't have to drag her like a sniveling coward. River stood, limping right to them.

Under her bare feet, the floor was cold, scattered in sheaves of paper when the grand double doors opened and River was on display before the crowd. Even practically naked, knowing the dusk of her nipples showed through the dirty silk, River raised her chin.

There was a man, he had a familiar look about him, sitting atop a stack of desks like some great judge. He banged a gavel and called her forward. River went, refusing the opulent chair sitting in the center of the chamber, so she might stand before it and glare.

The judge opened his mouth to speak, River shouting over the jeering mob to cut him off. "A man attacked me and I beat him to death with a brick."

"A note was made on your file, yes." The judge grinned, as if the action had been nothing compared to whatever else was on that sheet. "But it is of little concern to the court."

The fuck it wasn't. "This is not a court. This is a nuthouse and everyone in here has lost their minds. There are riots on your streets. Your people are suffering!"

"You misunderstand, Ms. Blackwell. This is the height of human progress. Citizens like you are to be removed so that you cannot harm your fellow man further."

Staring at that man in his mussed suit, it dawned on her who sat as her judge. She might not have been on top of current events, but even River had seen the headlines about Dr. Jonathan Crane. Someone had let him out of Arkham. Someone had place the maniac in a position of authority.

Arguing with the clinically insane was going to get her nowhere.

"Amelia Blackwell, you have been found guilty and sit before our court to be sentenced."

Lips firm, River demanded, "Guilty of what? Self-defense is not murder."

"Decadence. Accumulating wealth at the expense of the people of Gotham."

Acerbic laughter, she couldn't stop it. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. I don't even live in Gotham."

Spinning the gavel between his fingers, Crane lounged, cocky smirk in place. "Bane considers this a public service to those yet unenlightened outside our great city."

Now that's who she wanted to sink her teeth into. "There's that name again. Just who the fuck is Bane?"

Those five words excited the man, Crane grinning. "Gotham's liberator."

"Funny, I don't feel very liberated."

"He is observing court proceedings from the back of the room. Turn around, Ms. Blackwell, if you'd like to meet the hero of the hour."

There was something in Crane's tone, something dark, that made River hesitate. Slowly, she peered over her shoulder, looking through the crowed for the man who was responsible for all this mess. He was the reason she'd been beaten, dragged through the streets, held hostage at gunpoint, and if she was going to die, she was going to make him face her himself.

When her eyes found a giant leaning against a pillar busy playing with some string in his fingers and pointedly ignoring all that went on around him, River went white as a sheet. Something came over her at seeing a mask, at recognizing just whose theoretical hand was squeezing her throat.

When he refused to acknowledge her, she picked up the lavish chair, and chucked it hard as she could his way.

The furniture made it nowhere near him, but it did crash in a pleasing way. The crowed loved the show, madness breaking out until armed soldiers moved to intervene and keep them in place.

Crane banged the gavel, demanded order. "No, we don't kill her. She has been sentenced and must decide for herself. Death or exile, Ms. Blackwell?"

She paid no attention to the ravings of the judge, River didn't even offer the shouting kook a cursory glare, because Bane had finally looked up; he'd look right at her.

It had to be a nightmare, something brought on by exhaustion and stress. No way was it real. No way was that man standing there, his head fractionally cocked as narrowed eyes met hers.

"You're Bane...?" The fight went right out of her, River breaking the stare to acknowledge Crane's question. She shouted at the top of her lungs, "I CHOOSE DEATH!"

That was all she had to say before soldiers hooked her arms and began to remove her from the room.

She didn't spare the giant a second glance.

* * *

Things went wrong once River was dragged from the hall. A holding cell packed with people pleading for the exile they'd been promised, she was pulled passed it. Instead the soldiers shoved her inside a private cell.

Once the bars were slammed shut, she reached through, grabbing the fatigues of the nearest soldier. "You're supposed to kill me. I chose death!"

He ignored her, shook off her grasp, and left her there, alone. All through the night River had to watch the parade of victims revolving. In groups they were taken to their exile, moments later the cell packed full again.

Whatever exile was, River was certain it was worse than death. Because she knew that man.

If her cell was the cell set aside for those who chose death, it seemed it was not a popular option. Perhaps they were waiting for more before the firing squad might perform. It would probably be a public execution. Otherwise, why make her wait?

To torture her.

It was two days before he had the gall to show himself, River sitting on the hard cot, staring at the wall, when the monster moved into her periphery.

Bane sucked a rasping breath, as if that hiss were a greeting.

River refused to look at him. "I should have let you drown in that lake."

His attention was acute, she could feel it. He saw everything – the crusted blood, her bruises, how dirty she was. "Fortunately for me, you were incapable of such an act."

A nasty laugh stretched her split lip, River shaking her head. "Incapable? I killed a man with a brick, _Bane_." Hackles raised, River glared. "You son of a bitch. You cocksucking mother fucker!"

"I see your vernacular has not improved."

River screamed obscenities until she'd run out of words; she'd screamed until she felt strong again.

Bane appeared bored. Once she slowed, he asked, "Are you finished?"

No, she wasn't. "Why would you do this? You had a second chance and this is how chose to spend it?"

"Precisely."

The doors were unlocked, Bane shifting his mass inside. He crowded her in that small space, looked down at River's pricy silk negligee stained with blood. At the rips that showed bloodied knees, at her swollen face. She stood her ground, looked feral; she looked like Gotham... what Gotham really was.

River didn't shrink, instead she batted her eyelashes and cooed, "The _liberator of Gotham_... your Messiah Complex is cliché to the point I want to throw up in my mouth. People won't fall for it for long. I promise you."

There was soldier, a subordinate behind Bane, who stood at attention as if he heard nothing. River glanced at him, at the open cell door and the armed man who would shoot her the second she took a step toward freedom.

Bane reached out, pinching her fallen strap, and set it properly at the startled woman's shoulder. "You should be very frightened right now."

When the adrenaline ran out she would be. "What's the point? I'm awaiting execution."

"You chose death. No word was said of execution."

Now that was both rhetorical and stupid. "As in everyone dies, Bane? If this is another one of your pointless, enlightening speeches, spare me. I've sat here for days with hardly anything to eat. If it's death by starvation, that's a bit ironic considering all the trouble I went through to feed you."

"Your cooking was atrocious."

Crossing her arms under her breasts, River glared.

It seemed the niceties were at an end. Bane began to speak, as if reading a memorized dossier. "Amelia Blackwell. Alias, River."

"Alias? You make me sound so mysterious. But it's nice to know you remembered the Samaritan you abandoned with no means of transportation in the snow laden arctic... That's real sweet."

The man took a breath, he stood taller. "Why are you in Gotham?"

"Business."

"You're a recluse."

"No, asshole, I'm a writer. The book you stole, I wrote it."

His negation of her statement was immediate. "_Midway_ was written by a man."

Disgusted, River pressed her hands to her face. "Really? It's been ten years and you're still stuck with that chauvinist mindset? My penname is A. Samuel. A for Adahy, Cherokee for _lives in the woods_. Samuel was my homage to Mark Twain."

Bane finally showed something beyond cold curiosity. There was a spark of anger in the eyes above the mask. "And you should have stayed in those woods."

River's voice was hard. "I had obligations here, and if you're not going to execute me then I have obligations elsewhere. Do you understand me?"

Bane took the bunk, sitting slowly as if the conversation was suddenly a sociable exchange. "No one leaves the city. If anyone attempts to escape, a nuclear bomb will be detonated."

"So I've heard." After three days of hearing others sob, after watching strangers march past her cell to their deaths, River didn't care if her words set him off. "This plan you've designed, it's something I would have written as a novice – a shitty plot device of a crafty villain. You _won't_ pull the trigger... all that power, your grandiose statement, would disappear before you had the chance to roll around in it like a pig in shit."

"Every bridge has been destroyed, save one. How will you get out? Are you going build a canoe, little squaw? My men would shoot you before you made it a hundred meters."

How she hated disparaging Native American cracks. "If you're toying with the idea of setting me free, I'll gladly take my chances outside."

Bane motioned toward the open cell door. "As you wish."

He had to be fucking with her. River hesitated before taking a step toward the accompanying soldier. Before she crossed the threshold to leave the cell behind she spoke to the bearded man. "Give me your gun."

There wasn't a moment's pause. The soldier man kept a hold of his rifle with one hand and reached for the pistol at his belt with another. He handed it grip first to River.

Panic was starting to seep in, River swallowing over the lump in her throat as she took the weapon and stuttered, "I'm going to need more bullets."

He handed her two clips, saw how she shook, how shallow her breaths were, and did nothing when she walked right down the hall.

* * *

**If you enjoyed A Night by my Fire, you might love my original stories. I have a few books and a short story in an anthology to be released on Amazon this year. If you're interested, check out Itzy Strange on Facebook. I also have a few free stories on Literotica and Fictionpress you are welcome to enjoy.**

**Feedback is welcome.**

**P.S. I missed you all and love ya very much!**


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